Human Kind Cannot Bear Much Reality.

In The Last Few Years Everything I'd Done Up To Sixty Or So Has Seemed Very Childish.

I Do Not Know Much About Gods; But I Think That The River Is A Strong Brown God-sullen, Untamed And Intractable, Patient To Some Degree, At First Recognized As A Frontier; Useful, Untrustworthy, As A Conveyor Of Commerce; Then Only A Problem Confronting The Builder Of Bridges. The Problem Once Solved, The Brown God Is Almost Forgotten By The Dwellers In Cities-ever, However, Implacable. Keeping His Seasons, And Rages, Destroyer, Reminder Of What Men Choose To Forget. Unhonored, Unpropitiated By Worshippers Of The Machine, But Waiting, Watching And Waiting.

Writing Every Day Is A Way Of Keeping The Engine Running, And Then Something Good May Come Out Of It.

We Know Too Much, And Are Convinced Of Too Little. Our Literature Is A Substitute For Religion, And So Is Our Religion.

Oh, Do Not Ask, 'what Is It?'/let Us Go And Make Our Visit.