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This skill for elision returns, evocatively, in “Saying Goodbye to the Dead,” which begins, “I walk on the dirt roads being my father”—the speaker at once Christlike and tellurian in loss.

They are not impossible: they could be translated into actual tellurian beings, which the men and women of the bad novelist never can be.

He turned his face to her and said earnestly, "Did you ever sleep out on a mountain with the stars close above you?—'the vast tellurian galleons' voyaging through space?"

It was really like a dead forest, or like thick-set masts of shipping in a thronged port; or the vents of tellurian fires, which send up their flames by night and their smoke by day.