When reading aloud the words of a poem you can realize the gap between their sound and their realization in performance. We'd rather say there's a split in the performance itself between its appearance as an event in time and its monadologic character. The presence of poetry doesn't account for anything nor can be accounted for, it's not something that happens nor is it anything related to something that happens: if we look for the occasion of its appearance we will find out that it has always already happened. Our notion of time sold at less, the criterium for what we call real and for every conceivable human activity, is just the sign that what has always happened is not something that is likely to take place: it doesn't happen. It is difficult to imagine a greater swing than the one affecting the ringing out of words: when we fail to recognize the thing there, we condemn ourselves to search for some reality or some change that should happen somewhere or somehow.
