A Letter Makes Ordinary Things

I Owe Everything That I Have Done To The Fact That I Am Very Much At Ease Being Alone.

Everything That Falls Upon The Eye Is Apparition, A Sheet Dropped Over The World's True Workings. The Nerves And The Brain Are Tricked, And One Is Left With Dreams That These Specters Loose Their Hands From Ours And Walk Away, The Curve Of The Back And The Swing Of The Coat So Familiar As To Imply That They Should Be Permanent Fixtures Of The World, When In Fact Nothing Is More Perishable.

I Hated Waiting. If I Had One Particular Complaint, It Was That My Life Seemed Composed Entirely Of Expectation.

The Assumption Behind Any Theology That I've Ever Been Familiar With Is That There Is A Profound Beauty In Being, Simply In Itself. Poetry, At Least Traditionally, Has Been An Educing Of The Beauty Of Language, The Beauty Of Experience, The Beauty Of The Working Of The Mind, And So On. The Pastor Does, Indeed, Appreciate It.

Oddly Enough, My Favorite Genre Is Not Fiction. I'm Attracted By Primary Sources That Are Relevant To Historical Questions Of Interest To Me, By Famous Old Books On Philosophy Or Theology That I Want To See With My Own Eyes, By Essays On Contemporary Science, By The Literatures Of Antiquity.