The Great Ages Did Not Contain The

Moving Between The Legs Of Tables And Of Chairs, Rising Or Falling, Grasping At Kisses And Toys, Advancing Boldly, Sudden To Take Alarm, Retreating To The Corner Of Arm And Knee, Eager To Be Reassured, Taking Pleasure In The Fragrant Brilliance Of The Christmas Tree.

I Am Tired With My Own Life And The Lives Of Those After Me, I Am Dying In My Own Death And The Deaths Of Those After Me.

We Have All Our Private Terrors, Our Particular Shadows, Our Secret Fears. We Are Afraid In A Fear Which We Cannot Face, Which None Understands, And Our Hearts Are Torn From Us, Our Brains Unskinned Like The Layers Of An Onion, Ourselves The Last.

Words Strain, Crack, And Sometime Break, Under The Burden.

All Significant Truths Are Private Truths. As They Become Public They Cease To Become Truths; They Become Facts, Or At Best, Part Of The Public Character; Or At Worst, Catchwords.