Reading the ceaseless murmuring of innumerable bees

Weinberger translated that Bei Dao that put me in traction for two weeks, a complete mental yard sale, when I was 33, unless that was when I was 26, unless it was Paz.

Miller, of Brooklyn but against it, late in his book about Paris and gashes and proto-Beat straight narration of a bender in Le Havre, vaults into phantasmic riffing that starts by quoting all caps Goethe, then segues to feverish delamination, plays on Fyodor, and declares in homage to Milton the love of everything that flows. And right before invoking blind aeropagatica and right after the arpeggios of vision quests and the aesthetic superiority of bilious screed, he declares, in the high style of this ten page riff:

It may be that we are doomed, that there is no hope for us, any of us, but if that is so, then let us set up the last, agonizing, bloodcurdling howl, a screech of defiance, a war whoop! Away with lamentation! Away with elegies and dirges! Away with biographies and histories, and libraries and museums! Let the dead eat the dead. Let us living once dance about the room of the crater, last expiring dance. But a dance!

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The music critic recites:

I suggested that there might be no more potent motivation on earth than “I’ll show you,” directed at everyone and no one. “Exactly,” she replied. “That’s the energy that I had after I left that situation: You’ll fucking see. You just wait.”

YOU. JUST. WAIT.