This poem, which appeared in the October 10, 2005 New Yorker, makes me think of Hegel, who’s always going on about absolute being, etc.:


a bumptious, stuck-up word.
It should be written in quotes.
It pretends to miss nothing,
to gather, hold, contain, and have.
While all the while it’s just
a shred of a gale.

—Wislawa Szymborska

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