"A new star has been discovered, which doesn't mean that things have gotten brighter or that something we've been missing has appeared. The star is large and distant, so distant that it's small, even smaller than others much smaller than it. Small wonder, then, if we were struck with wonder; as we would be if only we had the time. The star's age, mass, location— all this perhaps will do for one doctoral dissertation and a wine-and-cheese reception in circles close to the sky: the astronomer, his wife, friends, and relations, casual, congenial, come as you are, mostly chat on earthbound topics, surrounded by cozy earth tones. The star's superb, but that's no reason why we can't drink to the ladies who are incalculably closer. The star's inconsequential. It has no impact on the weather, fashion, final score, government shake-ups, moral crises, take-home pay. No effect on propaganda or on heavy industry. It's not reflected in a conference table's shine. It's supernumerary in the light of life's numbered days. What's the use of asking under how many stars man is born and under how many in a moment he will die. A new one. "At least show me where it is." "Between that gray cloud's jagged edge and the acacia twig over there on the left." "I see," I say." Surplus, Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh