Breytenbach on Francois Krige and Art = Leaving a Few Marks

As I am currently rummaging through my closet of earlier poems (perhaps separating the keepers from the chaff, perhaps doing a little Audenesque retouching, possibly shaping another book), I found this Breyten bit (Dog Heart, section titled FRANCOIS KRIGE) semi-apropos:
I think to myself: Is it just as well he's too weak to destroy his own work. I talk to him about Kafka's instructions to Max Brod. He answers quietly. Maybe he wants to say: Go on, talk--you don't know what you're saying. What is quality? Who but the person confronting his own work will ever know? Is it not ultimately about the dignity of leaving a few marks?

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