Beyond Myself, Somewhere, I Wait For My

Literature Is The Expression Of A Feeling Of Deprivation, A Recourse Against A Sense Of Something Missing. But The Contrary Is Also True: Language Is What Makes Us Human. It Is A Recourse Against The Meaningless Noise And Silence Of Nature And History.

It Is Always Difficult To Give Oneself Up; Few Persons Anywhere Ever Succeed In Doing So, And Even Fewer Transcend The Possessive Stage To Know Love For What It Actually Is: A Perpetual Discovery, And Immersion In The Waters Of Reality, An Unending Re-creation.

Love Is An Attempt At Penetrating Another Being, But It Can Only Succeed If The Surrender Is Mutual.

The Beloved Is Already In Our Being, As Thirst And "otherness." Being Is Eroticism. Inspiration Is That Strange Voice That Takes Man Out Of Himself To Be Every Thing That He Is, Everything That He Desires; Another Body, Another Being. Beyond, Outside Of Me, In The Green And Gold Thicket, Among The Tremulous Branches, Sings The Unknown. It Calls To Me.

What Sets Worlds In Motion Is The Interplay Of Differences, Their Attractions And Repulsions; Life Is Plurality, Death Is Uniformity.