One might have thought of sight, but who could think
Of what it sees, for all the ill it sees?
Speech found the ear, for all the evil sound,
But the dark italics it could not propound.
And of what one sees and hears and out
Of what one feels, who could have thought to make
So many selves, so many sensuous worlds—
As if the air, the mid-day air, was swarming
With the metaphysical changes that occur,
Merely living as and where we live.

Wallace Stevens, “Esthétique du Mal”