That Ideal Reader Suffering From An Ideal

What Birds Were They? (...) He Listened To The Cries: Like The Squeak Of Mice Be- Hind The Wainscot : A Shrill Twofold Note. But The Notes Were Long And Shrill And Whirring, Unlike The Cry Of Vermin, Falling A Third Or A Fourth And Trilled As The Flying Beaks Clove The Air. Their Cry Was Shrill And Clear And Fine And Falling Like Threads Of Silken Light Unwound From Whirring Spools.

Though People May Read More Into Ulysses Than I Ever Intended, Who Is To Say That They Are Wrong: Do Any Of Us Know What We Are Creating?which Of Us Can Control Our Scribblings? They Are The Script Of One's Personality Like Your Voice Or Your Walk

He Lived At A Little Distance From His Body, Regarding His Own Acts With Doubtful Side-glances. He Had An Odd Autobiographical Habit Which Led Him To Compose In His Mind From Time To Time A Short Sentence About Himself Containing A Subject In The Third Person And A Verb In The Past Tense.

To Live, To Err, To Fall, To Triumph, To Recreate Life Out Of Life.

He Was Unheeded, Happy, And Near To The Wild Heart Of Life