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The litter of disordered notebooks filled to the covers with fragments of such beauty that they almost seem to burn with a light of their own, lies at this moment before me on my desk. I still hear the rushing torrent of his language across the spotted table-cloth in that dark restaurant corner. But the incoherence seems only to increase with my best efforts to combine the two.
"Go home and dream it," as he said at last when I ventured a question here and there toward the end of the recital. "You'll see it best that way in sleep. Get clear away from "me", and my surface physical consciousness. Perhaps it will come to you then."