And the wind shall say: 'Here were decent Godless people: Their only monument the asphalt road And a thousand lost golf balls.
A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel reader is not prepared to give.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the spoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in the dark...
Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance
The journey not the arrival matters.
