Your Imagination Comes To Life, And This,

The Landscape Of The American West Has To Be Seen To Believed And Has To Be Believed To Be Seen.

My Line Of Vision Was Such That The Creature Filled The Moon Like A Fossil. It Had Gone There, I Thought, To Live And Die, For There, Of All Places, Was Its Small Definition Made Whole And Eternal

Once In His Life, A Man Ought To Concentrate His Mind Upon The Remembered Earth, I Believe. He Ought To Give Himself Up To A Particular Landscape In His Experience, To Look At It From As Many Angles As He Can, To Wonder About It, To Dwell Upon It. He Ought To Imagine That He Touches It With His Hands At Every Season And Listens To The Sounds That Are Made Upon It. He Ought To Imagine The Creatures There And All The Faintest Motions Of The Wind. He Ought To Recollect The Glare Of Noon And All The Colors Of The Dawn And Dusk.

Writing Engenders In Us Certain Attitudes Toward Language. It Encourages Us To Take Words For Granted. Writing Has Enabled Us To Store Vast Quantities Of Words Indefinitely. This Is Advantageous On The One Hand But Dangerous On The Other. The Result Is That We Have Developed A Kind Of False Security Where Language Is Concerned, And Our Sensitivity To Language Has Deteriorated. And We Have Become In Proportion Insensitive To Silence.

We Are What We Imagine. Our Very Existence Consists In Our Imagination Of Ourselves. Our Best Destiny Is To Imagine, At Least, Completely, Who And What, And That We Are. The Greatest Tragedy That Can Befall Us Is To Go Unimagined.