I Think In Any Writing You're Paying

Where To Begin? Do We Measure The Relaxing Of The Feet? The Moment When The Eye Glimpses The Hawk, When Instinct Functions? For In This Pure Action, This Pure Moving Of The Bird, There Is No Time, No Space, But Only The Free Doing-being Of This Very Moment -now!

I Was Just Very Interested In The American Frontier And The Growth Of Capitalism - Those Enormous Fortunes That Were Being Made, More Often Than Not, On The Blood Of Poor People, Black People, Indian People. They Were The Ones Who Paid Very Dearly For Those Great Fortunes.

I Meditate For The Last Time On This Mountain That Is Bare, Though Others All Around Are White With Snow. Like The Bare Peak Of The Koan, This One Is Not Different From Myself. I Know This Mountain Because I Am This Mountain, I Can Feel It Breathing At This Moment, As Its Grass Tops Stray Against The Snows. If The Snow Leopard Should Leap From The Rock Above And Manifest Itself Before Me - S-a-a-o! - Then In That Moment Of Pure Fright, Out Of My Wits, I Might Truly Perceive It, And Be Free.

Alec Wilkinson Is A Spare, Clear, And Lucid Writer Who Works In Stylistic Simplicity With Material That Is Not Simple At All.

And Only The Enlightened Can Recall Their Former Lives; For The Rest Of Us, The Memories Of Past Existences Are But Glints Of Light, Twinges Of Longing, Passing Shadows, Disturbingly Familiar, That Are Gone Before They Can Be Grasped, Like The Passage Of That Silver Bird On Dhaulagiri.