(no subject)

[nostrathomas]

Poetry is a game of precision; let the novelists work from sun up to sun down; if you can't fret over one or two syllables for weeks or years at a time, you just ain't cut out for it.
Tonight I'm celebrating because I put the final touches on my translation of a piece by Baudelaire. You, dear reader, won't see it for some years I imagine. (But maybe you'll remember it was me.)