At Sunrise Everything Is Luminous But Not

Eventually, All Things Merge Into One, And A River Runs Through It. The River Was Cut By The World's Great Flood And Runs Over Rocks From The Basement Of Time. On Some Of The Rocks Are Timeless Raindrops. Under The Rocks Are The Words, And Some Of The Words Are Theirs. I Am Haunted By Waters.

One Of Life's Quiet Excitements Is To Stand Somewhat Apart From Yourself And Watch Yourself Softly Becoming The Author Of Something Beautiful Even If It Is Only A Floating Ash.

The Hardest Thing Usually To Leave Behind, As Was The Case Now, Can Loosely Be Called The Conscience.

Help Is Giving Part Of Yourself To Somebody Who Comes To Accept It Willingly And Needs It Badly.

I Had As Yet No Notion That Life Every Now And Then Becomes Literature—not For Long, Of Course, But Long Enough To Be What We Best Remember, And Often Enough So That What We Eventually Come To Mean By Life Are Those Moments When Life, Instead Of Going Sideways, Backwards, Forward, Or Nowhere At All, Lines Out Straight, Tense And Inevitable, With A Complication, Climax, And, Given Some Luck, A Purgation, As If Life Had Been Made And Not Happened.