I Like To See Life With Its

I Must Go Down To The Seas Again To Find Where I Buried The Hatchet With Yesterday.

I Had A Cousin Once Who Lived In Your Dictionary, Inside The Binding, And There Was A Tiny Hole Which He Used For A Door, And It Led Out Between Trichotomy And Trick. Now What Do You Think Of That? It Was Only A Few Minutes Walk To Trigger, Then Over The Page To Trinity, Trinket And Trional, And There My Cousin Used To Fall Asleep.

Listening To Her, One Experienced A Deep Uneasiness As Of Having Avoided An Urgent Responsibility, Like Someone Who, Walking At Night Along The Banks Of A Stream, Catches A Glimpse In The Water Of A White Face Or A Moving Limb And Turns Quickly Away, Refusing To Help Or To Search For Help. We All See The Faces In The Water. We Smother Our Memory Of Them, Even Our Belief In Their Reality, And Become Calm People Of The World; Or We Can Neither Forget Or Help Them. Sometimes By A Trick Of Circumstances Or Dream Or A Hostile Neighborhood Of Light We See Our Own Face.

I Have Discovered That My Freedom Is Within Me, And Nothing Can Destroy It.

All Writers - All Beings - Are Exiles As A Matter Of Course. The Certainty About Living Is That It Is A Succession Of Expulsions Of Whatever Carries The Life Force...all Writers Are Exiles Wherever They Live And Their Work Is A Lifelong Journey Towards The Lost Land.