One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.
Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull or boring they are on the outside, inside them they’ve got unimaginable, magnificent, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.
We pass through the present with our eyes blindfolded. We are permitted merely to sense and guess at what we are actually experiencing. Only later when the cloth is untied can we glance at the past and find out what we have experienced and what meaning it has.
In the deepest nights
words left behind or asleep
may find their connections.
In scattered papers, who knows or forgets them?
Someday perhaps they’ll resonate—who knows?—
in a few sympathetic hearts.
—Vicente Aleixandre, closing strophe to “The Poet’s Words,” translated from the Spanish by Stephen Kessler, The American Poetry Review (v. 41, no. 3, May/June 2012)