Moe (1937-2013) knew he was dying when he wrote this book and knew as well that the book would be published after his death. The words here sound like a man talking fast-saying anything that pops into his head in an effort to stave off his all-too-imminent eternal silence. As long as he can talk (write), he is alive: "sinews of iterated dreams."
¿It is wonderful to encounter the patented madness of this poet of dreams and language and to feel that, just maybe, language can bring him back. "Books, " wrote Milton in the Areopagitica, "are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are, nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them...a good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.