And One's Wandering Proved As Sterile And

An Event May Be Small And Insignificant In Its Origin , And Yet, When Drawn Close To One’s Eye, It May Open In Its Center An Infinite And Radiant Perspective Because A Higher Order Of Being Is Trying To Express Itself In It And Irradiates It Violently.

Even In The Depths Of Sleep, In Which He Had To Satisfy His Need For Protection And Love By Curling Himself Up Into A Trembling Ball, He Could Not Rid Himself Of The Feeling Of Loneliness And Homelessness.

There Are Things Than Cannot Ever Occur With Any Precision. They Are Too Big And Too Magnificent To Be Contained In Mere Facts. They Are Merely Trying To Occur, They Are Checking Whether The Ground Of Reality Can Carry Them. And They Quickly Withdraw, Fearing To Loose Their Integrity In The Frailty Of Realization.

Now The Windows, Blinded By The Glare Of The Empty Square, Had Fallen Asleep. The Balconies Declared Their Emptiness To Heaven; The Open Doorways Smelt Of Coolness And Wine.

Ordinary Facts Are Arranged Within Time, Strung Along Its Length As On A Thread. There They Have Their Antecedents And Their Consequences, Which Crowd Tightly Together And Press Hard One Upon The Other Without Any Pause. This Has Its Importance For Any Narrative, Of Which Continuity And Successiveness Are The Soul.