... I Think We Grieve Forever, But

In Spite Of All The Talk And Study About Our Next Years, All The Silent Ponderings About What Lies Within Them...it Seems Plain To Us That Many Things Are Wrong In The Present Ones That Can Be, Must Be, Changed. Our Texture Of Belief Has Great Holes In It. Our Pattern Lacks Pieces.

Death ... So Seldom Happens Nowadays In The Awesome Quiet Of A Familiar Chamber. Most Of Us Die Violently, Thanks To The Advance Of Science And Warfare. If By Chance We Are Meant To End Life In Our Beds, We Are Whisked Like Pox Victims To The Nearest Hospital, Where We Are Kept As Alone And Unaware As Possible Of The Approach Of Disintegration.

The Smell Of Good Bread Baking, Like The Sound Of Lightly Flowing Water, Is Indescribable In Its Evocation Of Innocence And Delight... [breadmaking Is] One Of Those Almost Hypnotic Businesses, Like A Dance From Some Ancient Ceremony. It Leaves You Filled With One Of The World's Sweetest Smells... There Is No Chiropractic Treatment, No Yoga Exercise, No Hour Of Meditation In A Music-throbbing Chapel. That Will Leave You Emptier Of Bad Thoughts Than This Homely Ceremony Of Making Bread.

But If I Must Be Alone, I Refuse To Be Alone As If It Were Something Weak And Distasteful, Like Convalescence.

There Is A Communication Of More Than Our Bodies When Bread Is Broken And Wine Is Drunk. And That Is My Answer When People Ask Me: Why Do You Write About Hunger, And Not Wars Or Love.