A work of art is always meant to outlast its maker. Paraphrasing the philosopher, one could say that writing of poetry, too, is an exercise in dying. But apart from pure linguistic necessity, what makes one write is not so much a concern for one’s perishable flesh but the urge to spare certain things of one’s world–of one’s personal civilization–from one’s own nongrammatical continuum. Art is [8] not a better, but an alternative existence; it is not an attempt to escape reality but the opposite, an attempt to animate it. It is a spirit seeking flesh but finding words.
Brodsky, Joseph. “Introduccion”. Osip Mandelstam: 50 Poems. Trans. Bernand Meares. NY: Persea Books, 1977. 7-18. pp.7-8.
Lo cual no es necesariamente nuevo, ya que Sir Philip Sidney dec



