I cannot now recall where I came across an anecdote about the young
Ezra Pound being at a bohemian-posh dinner party in London where,
during a discussion of some highly aesthetic topic at the table, Pound
sat silently slowly plucking the petals from the roses in a vase on
the table in front of him, and when his hostess at length turned to
him and asked, "And what is your opinion, Mr. Pound?" Pound began
blowing the rose petals over the tablecloth.
(Reminding me now that when I visited Pound's grave, there was a
single fresh unwithered rose on it, with no one else around.)
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Jon Corelis http://jcorelis.googlepages.com/joncorelis
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