I Had A Farm In Africa, At

Where The Storyteller Is Loyal, Eternally And Unswervingly Loyal To The Story, There, In The End, Silence Will Speak. Where The Story Has Been Betrayed, Silence Is But Emptiness. But We, The Faithful, When We Have Spoken Our Last Word, Will Hear The Voice Of Silence.

Truth Is For Tailors And Shoemakers. I, On The Contrary, Have Always Held That The Lord Has A Penchant For Masquerades.

The Cicada Sing An Endless Song In The Long Grass, Smells Run Along The Earth And Falling Stars Run Over The Sky, Like Tears Over A Cheek. You Are The Privileged Person To Whom Everything Is Taken. The Kings Of Tarshish Shall Bring Gifts.

The Air Was Cold To The Lungs, The Long Grass Dripping Wet, And The Herbs On It Gave Out Their Spiced Astringent Scent. In A Little While On All Sides The Cicada Would Begin To Sing. The Grass Was Me , And The Air, The Distant Invisible Mountains Were Me, The Tired Oxen Were Me. I Breathed With The Slight Night-wind In The Thorn Trees.

It Is Not The Visions But The Activity Which Makes You Happy, And The Joy And Glory Of The Flier Is The Flight Itself. . . Every Time I Have Gone Up In An Aeroplane And Looked Down Have Realized I Was Free Of The Ground, I Have Had The Consciousness Of A New Discovery. "i See:" I Have Thought, "this Was The Idea. And Now I Understand Everything."