He Who Rides The Sea Of The

He Who Rides The Sea Of The Nile Must Have Sails Woven Of Patience.

If Faces Were Different When Lit From Above Or Below -- What Was A Face? What Was Anything?

I Suppose I'd Have To Say That My Favourite Author Is Homer. After Homer's Ilaid, I'd Name The Odyssey, And Then I'd Mention A Number Of Plays Of Euripides.

Roger Stooped, Picked Up A Stone, Aimed And Threw It At Henry-threw It To Miss. The Stone, That Token Of Preposterous Time, Bounced Five Yards To Henry's Right And Fell In The Water. Roger Gathered A Handful Of Stones And Began To Throw Them. Yet There Was A Space Round Henry, Perhaps Six Yards In Diameter, Into Which He Dare Not Throw. Here, Invisible Yet Strong, Was The Taboo Of The Old Life. Round The Squatting Child Was The Protection Of Parents And School And Policemen And The Law. Roger Was Conditioned By A Civilization That Knew Nothing Of Him And Was In Ruins.

He Became Absorbed Beyond Mere Happiness As He Felt Himself Exercising Control Over Living Things. He Talked To Them, Urging Them, Ordering Them. Driven Back By The Tide, His Footprints Became Bays In Which They Were Trapped And Gave Him The Illusion Of Mastery.