Miłobędzka desires nothing as much as the world's wholeness. She is possessed by the idea of holism. She seems to be also a pilgrim - in sackcloth - on the path to the entelechy of poetry. She knows that she will never attain it, but she has succeeded in ascertaining that it is not what we seize - but what we are not in a position to seize, what is good and open - that builds us up. Miłobędzka's entelechy is also a powerful force more responsible for the condition of the good than for the adequacy of material things. That's how she sees it on her way to the truth. As she goes on, she says that she doesn't expect to discover more. But she should. To gather it all in other words. She is already doing this, already unceasingly saying: to live means to go out of nothingness, always to endure dispersion, to be able at every instant to begin to exist for the first time. I can't break through any further, she spreads her words helplessly. And She-Who-Succeeded-In-Never-Lying even to the smallest part of speech - here for the first time - is lying.