We Have Become Indifferent To Content, And

Human Material Seems To Have One Major Defect: It Does Not Like To Be Considered Merely As Human Material. It Finds It Hard To Endure The Feeling That It Must Resign Itself To Passive Acceptance Of Changes Introduced From Above.

When A Writer Is Born Into A Family, The Family Is Finished.

The Soul Exceeds Its Circumstances.

They Used To Pour Millet On Graves Or Poppy Seeds To Feed The Dead Who Would Come Disguised As Birds. I Put This Book Here For You, Who Once Lived So That You Should Visit Us No More.

The Vineyard Country, Russet, Reddish, Carmine-brown In This Season. A Blue Outline Of Hills Above A Fertile Valley. It's Warm As Long As The Sun Does Not Set, In The Shade Cold Returns. A Strong Sauna And Then Swimming In A Pool Surrounded By Trees. Dark Redwoods, Transparent Pale-leved Birches. In Their Delicate Network, A Sliver Of The Moon. I Describe This For I Have Learned To Doubt Philosophy And The Visible World Is All That Remains.