I Want, By Understanding Myself, To Understand

Looking Back, I Imagine I Was Always Writing. Twaddle It Was Too. But Better Far Write Twaddle Or Anything, Anything, Than Nothing At All.

The Fields Are Snowbound No Longer; There Are Little Blue Lakes And Flags Of Tenderest Green. The Snow Has Been Caught Up Into The Sky- So Many White Clouds-and The Blue Of The Sky Is Cold. Now The Sun Walks In The Forest, He Touches The Bows And Stems With His Golden Fingers; They Shiver, And Wake From Slumber. Over The Barren Branches He Shakes His Yellow Curls. Yet Is The Forest Full Of The Sound Of Tears.... A Wind Dances Over The Fields. Shrill And Clear The Sound Of Her Waking Laughter, Yet The Little Blue Lakes Tremble And The Flags Of Tenderest Green Bend And Quiver.

Ach, Tchekov! Why Are You Dead? Why Can’t I Talk To You In A Big Darkish Room At Late Evening—where The Light Is Green From The Waving Trees Outside? I’d Like To Write A Series Of Heavens: That Would Be One.

Oh, Impossible. Fancy Cream Puffs So Soon After Breakfast. The Very Idea Made One Shudder. All The Same, Two Minutes Later Jose And Laura Were Licking Their Fingers With That Absorbed Inward Look That Only Comes From Whipped Cream.

How Idiotic Civilization Is! Why Be Given A Body If You Have To Keep It Shut Up In A Case Like A Rare, Rare Fiddle?