Living as he does much of the time in a world of metaphor, the poet is always acutely conscious that metaphor has no value apart from its function; that it is a device, an artifice. So that while others may look on the laws of physics as legislation and Gad as a human form with beard measured in light-years and nebulae for sandals, Fausto's kind are alone with the task of living in a universe of things which simply are, and cloaking that innate mindlessness with comfortable and pious metaphor so that the "practical" half of humanity may continue in the Great Lie, confident that their machines, dwellings, streets and weather share the same human motives, personal traits and fits of contrariness as they.
Poets have been at this for centuries. It is the only useful purpose they do serve in society: and if every poet were to vanish tomorrow, society would live no longer than the quick memories and dead books of their poetry.
It is the "role" of the poet, this 20th Century. To lie.
Çevrene bir bak. Emlak, su hakları, petrol, ucuz emek - hepsi bizim, hep bizimdi. Sana gelince, sonuçta nesin ki? Bu ölümlü arı sürüsünün içinde yer alan bir eleman, hız kesmeden güneşli Güney'e gelip gidersiniz, belli bir marka, model ve yıla ait araba, bikinili bir sarışın hatun ve dalga bahanesiyle otuz saniyelik rüşvet karşılığında seve seve her şeyi yaparsanız - hatta Tanrı aşkına, acılı bir sosisli için bile." Omzunu silkti. "Sizin gibi tipler asla bitmez bizim için. Tükenmez bir kaynaksınız."