Timmy, Who Made A Daring Escape, Also

Listening To Her, One Experienced A Deep Uneasiness As Of Having Avoided An Urgent Responsibility, Like Someone Who, Walking At Night Along The Banks Of A Stream, Catches A Glimpse In The Water Of A White Face Or A Moving Limb And Turns Quickly Away, Refusing To Help Or To Search For Help. We All See The Faces In The Water. We Smother Our Memory Of Them, Even Our Belief In Their Reality, And Become Calm People Of The World; Or We Can Neither Forget Or Help Them. Sometimes By A Trick Of Circumstances Or Dream Or A Hostile Neighborhood Of Light We See Our Own Face.

Every Morning I Woke In Dread, Waiting For The Day Nurse To Go On Her Rounds And Announce From The List Of Names In Her Hand Whether Or Not I Was For Shock Treatment, The New And Fashionable Means Of Quieting People And Of Making Them Realize That Orders Are To Be Obeyed And Floors Are To Be Polished Without Anyone Protesting And Faces Are To Be Made To Be Fixed Into Smiles And Weeping Is A Crime.

He Sees The Land Of Meaning, And One Path To It, And The So-called “normal” People Traveling Swiftly And In Comfort To The Land; He Does Not Include The Shipwrecked People Who Arrive By Devious Lonely Routes, And The Many Who Dwell In The Land In The Beginning.

...there Must Be An Inviolate Place Where The Choices And Decisions, However Imperfect, Are The Writer's Own, Where The Decision Must Be As Individual And Solitary As Birth Or Death.

Electricity, The Peril The Wind Sings To In The Wires On A Gray Day.