To look in the shadow of the poem:

False statistics, glasses with droplets of wine left, broken violins, and all the hatreds one can feel at seeing what can't be recognized, and recognizing what can't be seen. The more sublime the lines, the more tarnished it is on this side—things stolen here and there, characters murdered, the way it demands to be read but cannot be, as it runs away from the common when not poisoning it. Isn't it worse, though, not to have written the poem at all, to have let odd angles play as if they couldn't adhere? To let illusions not have meaning, to let them stay too heavy to be dreams?