Words Have A Life; Without Response They

Me, What's That After All? An Arbitrary Limitation Of Being Bounded By The People Before And After And On Either Side. Where They Leave Off I Begin, And Vice Versa.

The Zoo Is A Prison For Animals Who Have Been Sentenced Without Trial And I Feel Guilty Because I Do Nothing About It. But There It Was, I Wanted To See An Oyster-catcher And I Was No Better Than The People Who'd Caged Oyster-catchers For Me To See.

Time's Arrow, We Are Told, Is A One-way Thing. . . Memory's Arrow, Like The Needle Of A Compass Too Close To A Lodestone, Spins In All Directions.

An Ordinary Mirror Is Silvered At The Back But The Window Of The Night Train Has Darkness Behind The Glass. My Face And The Faces Of Other Travellers Were Now Mirrored On This Darkness In A Succession Of Stillnesses. Consider This, Said The Darkness: Any Motion At Any Speed Is A Succession Of Stillnesses; Any Section Through An Action Will Show Just Such A Plane Of Stillness As This Dark Window In Which Your Seeking Face Is Mirrored. And In Each Plane Of Stillness Is The Moment Of Clarity That Makes You Responsible For What You Do.

A Map Is The Dead Body Of Where You've Been. A Map Is The Unborn Baby Of Where You're Going. There Are No Maps. Maps Are Pictures Of What Isn't.