In Order To Travel Far You Have

So Why Do I Write, Torturing Myself To Put It Down? Because In Spite Of Myself I've Learned Some Things. Without The Possibility Of Action, All Knowledge Comes To One Labeled "file And Forget," And I Can Neither File Nor Forget. Nor Will Certain Ideas Forget Me; They Keep Filing Away At My Lethargy, My Complacency. Why Should I Be The One To Dream This Nightmare?

There Must Be Possible A Fiction Which, Leaving Sociology And Case Histories To The Scientists, Can Arrive At The Truth About The Human Condition, Here And Now, With All The Bright Magic Of The Fairy Tale.

I Was Pulled This Way And That For Longer Than I Can Remember. And My Problem Was That I Always Tried To Go In Everyone's Way But My Own. I Have Also Been Called One Thing And Then Another While No One Really Wished To Hear What I Called Myself. So After Years Of Trying To Adopt The Opinions Of Others I Finally Rebelled. I Am An Invisible Man.

That ... Is How The World Moves: Not Like An Arrow, But A Boomerang.

I Suddenly Recall The Arpeggios Of Laughter Lilting Across The Tender, Springtime Grass-gay-welling, Far-floating, Fluent, Spontaneous, A Bell-like Feminine Fluting, Then Suppressed; As Though Snuffed Swiftly And Irrevocably Beneath The Quiet Solemnity Of The Vespered Air Now Vibrant With Somber Chapel Bells.