Earth And Sea Merged, The Sea Tossed

A Word Can Be Transformed Into A Coulour, Light, A Smell; It Is The Writer's Task To Use It In Such A Way That It Serves, Never Fails, Can Never Be Ignored.

But Now The World Breaks In On Us, The World Is Shocked, The World Looks Upon Our Idyll As Madness. The World Maintains That No Rational Man Or Woman Would Have Chosen This Way Of Life - Therefore, It Is Madness. Alone I Confront Them And Tell Them That Nothing Could Be Saner Or Truer! What Do People Really Know About Life? We Fall In Line, Follow The Pattern Established By Our Mentors. Everything Is Based On Assumptions; Even Time, Space, Motion, Matter Are Nothing But Supposition. The World Has No New Knowledge To Impart; It Merely Accepts What Is There.

You Are Welcome To Your Intellectual Pastimes And Books And Art And Newspapers; Welcome, Too, To Your Bars And Your Whisky That Only Makes Me Ill. Here Am I In The Forest, Quite Content.

Language Must Resound With All The Harmonies Of Music. The Writer Must Always, At All Times, Find The Tremulous Word Which Captures The Thing And Is Able To Draw A Sob From My Soul By Its Very Rightness.

Small Jerks Began To Appear In My Legs, My Walk Became Unsteady Precisely Because I Wanted It To Be Smooth.