One Reads Alone, Even In

Revolutionaries Are More Formalistic Than Conservatives.

I Will Start Out This Evening With An Assertion: Fantasy Is A Place Where It Rains.

For Those Who Pass It Without Entering, The City Is One Thing; It Is Another For Those Who Are Trapped By It And Never Leave. There Is The City Where You Arrive For The First Time; And There Is Another City Which You Leave Never To Return. Each Deserves A Different Name; Perhaps I Have Already Spoken Of Irene Under Other Names; Perhaps I Have Spoken Only Of Irene.

You Walk For Days Among Trees And Among Stones. Rarely Does The Eye Light On A Thing, And Then Only When It Has Recognized That Thing As The Sign Of Another Thing: A Print In The Sand Indicates The Tiger's Passage; A Marsh Announces A Vein Of Water; The Hibiscus Flower, The End Of Winter. All The Rest Is Silent And Interchangeable; Trees And Stones Are Only What They Are.

Each Sort Of Cheese Reveals A Pasture Of A Different Green, Under A Different Sky.