Denna kommentar om Bergman och Mora Träsk på Sakernas tillstånd påminde mig helt plötsligt om Basil Buntings "On the Fly-Leaf of Pound's Cantos". Det är en dikt som stannar kvar i minnet, och som träffsäkert fångar det lockande i Pounds havererade livsverk:

There are the Alps. What is there to say about them?
They don't make sense. Fatal glaciers, crags cranks climb,
jumbled boulder and weed, pasture and boulder, scree,
et l'on entend, maybe, le refrain joyeux et leger.
Who knows what the ice will have scraped on the rock it is smoothing?

There they are, you will have to go a long way round
if you want to avoid them.
It takes some getting used to. There are the Alps,
fools! Sit down and wait for them to crumble!

(Detta betyder inte nödvändigtvis att jag skattar Bergman lika högt som Pound.)