I Love Forms Beyond My Own, And

Each One Of Us Is A Statistical Impossibility Around Which Hover A Million Other Lives That Were Never Destined To Be Born.

Perhaps A Creature Of So Much Ingenuity And Deep Memory Is Almost Bound To Grow Alienated From His World, His Fellows, And The Objects Around Him. He Suffers From A Nostalgia For Which There Is No Remedy Upon Earth Except As It Is To Be Found In The Enlightenment Of The Spirit--some Ability To Have A Perceptive Rather Than An Exploitive Relationship With His Fellow Creatures.

I Am Older Now, And Sleep Less, And Have Seen Most Of What There Is To See And Am Not Very Much Impressed Any More, I Suppose, By Anything.

It Is A Commonplace Of All Religious Thought, Even The Most Primitive, That The Man Seeking Visions And Insight Must Go Apart From His Fellows And Love For A Time In The Wilderness.

Man Is Dragged Hither And Thither, At One Moment By The Blind Instincts Of The Forest, At The Next By The Strange Intuitions Of A Higher Self Whose Rationale He Doubts And Does Not Understand.