In This Very Breath That We Take

When I'm In The Field, When I'm Working, I Keep Very Careful Notes. I Wear Big Shirts With Big Breast Pockets, And I Carry In Them Two Little Spiral Notebooks.

I Like To Hear And Smell The Countryside, The Land That My Characters Inhabit. I Don’t Want These Characters To Step Off The Page, I Want Them To Step Out Of The Landscape.

The Ancient Intuition That All Matter, All "reality," Is Energy, That All Phenomena, Including Time And Space, Are Mere Crystallizations Of Mind, Is An Idea With Which Few Physicists Have Quarreled Since The Theory Of Relativity First Called Into Question The Separate Identities Of Energy And Matter. Today Most Scientists Would Agree With The Ancient Hindus That Nothing Exists Or Is Destroyed, Things Merely Change Shape Or Form; That Matter Is Insubstantial In Origin, A Temporary Aggregate Of He Pervasive Energy That Animates The Electron.

You See ... A Man Like Me, A Cautious Man, Has His Life All Figured Out According To A Pattern, And Then The Pattern Flies Apart. You Run Around For Quite A While Trying To Repair It, Until One Day You Straighten Up Again With An Armful Of Broken Pieces, And You See That The World Has Gone On Without You And You Can Never Catch Up With Your Old Life, And You Must Begin All Over Again.

Figures Dark Beneath Their Loads Pass Down The Far Bank Of The River, Rendered Immortal By The Streak Of Sunset Upon Their Shoulders