Seventy years, and what’s left? Or better still, what’s gone before? A couple of lines, a day or two out in the cold? And all those books, those half-baked books, sweet yeast for the yellow dust?
Tell me again, Lord, how easy it all is— renounce this, Renounce that, and all is a shining— Tell me again, I’m still here, your quick-lipped and malleable boy.
In the Kingdom of the Hollow-at-Heart, the insect is king. In the Kingdom of the Beyond, all lie where the ground is smooth. Everything’s what it seems to be, and a little less.
Why does each evening up here always, in summer, seem to be The way—as it does, with the light knifing low from right to left— It will be on the next-to-last one?
There is a consolation beyond nomenclature of what is past Or is about to pass, though I don’t know what it is. But someone, somewhere, must, and this is addressed to him.
We’ve got to examine truth. To me, writing, from the very beginning and right until this day, is a voyage of discovery. Of the mystery of life. I am one of those people who have no religious faith, I am an atheist. I believe there is only...
