Memory Is, Of Course, A Trickster.

Any Arbitrary Turning Along The Way And I Would Be Elsewhere; I Would Be Different.

The Undulent Landscape Looks Serene In Every Direction. Honey-colored Farmhouses, Gently Placed In Hollows, Rise Like Thick Loaves Of Bread Set Out To Cool.

Never Lose Your Childish Enthusiasm And Things Will Come Your Way.

Sometimes The Valley Below Is Like A Bowl Filled Up With Fog. I Can See Hard Green Figs On Two Trees And Pears On A Tree Just Below Me. A Fine Crop Coming In. May Summer Last A Hundred Years.

Memory Is, Of Course, A Trickster.