spirit of the liberated lyrist, sets himself in the centre of the world, and so manipulates rays and gems and lights as to construct a super-universe more spiritual, more compact, more subtle, and more gorgeous than the real universe. From one single point issue rays which on numberless paths meet memories and beauties, and imprison and illumine them with a sense of totality deeply realized and enjoyed: just as a ray of sunlight turns the base dust of the street into a whirl of golden points. Without recourse to isolated words, without availing himself, save rarely, of typographical trickery, Soffici succeeds in rendering the transparent and tremendous enigma of the visible world with expressions and suggestions which are absolutely novel to Italian poetry.
To understand these “lyric compounds” one must read and reread them; to realize their importance we must wait for years, perhaps for decades. I am not a literary critic by profession, and no interpretation of mine could take the place of direct examination. I have been a friend and comrade of Soffici for a dozen years; and I am glad to have borne witness for him here as a man who admires him because he understands him.
