What he loved about writing with a stub is that it made his scribble mostly illegible. That way, he never felt embarrassed by what he had written. He’d look at it, and look at it, afterward, while trying to guess what in the name of God he had said. If he had no luck, he asked his wife for help. She surprised him again and again by coming up with things that sounded better than anything he’d had in his head. A marriage of real and imagined, isn’t that what poetry is? As the years passed, he could no longer recall what was his, what his wife’s, and what belonged to all those divine concotions of hers simmering on the stove, some of which, the truth to be told, were as much the authors of his poems as he was.
Charles Simic, The Poet’s Pencil.
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