There Are Books Of Which The Backs

The Night Crept On Apace, The Moon Went Down, The Stars Grew Pale And Dim, And Morning, Cold As They, Slowly Approached. Then, From Behind A Distant Hill, The Noble Sun Rose Up, Driving The Mists In Phantom Shapes Before It, And Clearing The Earth Of Their Ghostly Forms Till Darkness Came Again.

There Either Is Or Is Not, That’s The Way Things Are. The Colour Of The Day. The Way It Felt To Be A Child. The Saltwater On Your Sunburnt Legs. Sometimes The Water Is Yellow, Sometimes It’s Red. But What Colour It May Be In Memory, Depends On The Day. I’m Not Going To Tell You The Story The Way It Happened. I’m Going To Tell It The Way I Remember It.

There Is A Drowsy State, Between Sleeping And Waking, When You Dream More In Five Minutes With Your Eyes Half Open, And Yourself Half Conscious Of Everything That Is Passing Around You, Than You Would In Five Nights With Your Eyes Fast Closed, And Your Senses Wrapt In Perfect Unconsciousness. At Such Time, A Mortal Knows Just Enough Of What His Mind Is Doing, To Form Some Glimmering Conception Of Its Mighty Powers, Its Bounding From Earth And Spurning Time And Space, When Freed From The Restraint Of Its Corporeal Associate.

I Only Ask To Be Free. The Butterflies Are Free. Mankind Will Surely Not Deny To Harold Skimpole What It Concedes To The Butterflies.

Nothing Of What Is Nobly Done Is Ever Lost.