The Accessibility And Effective Immortality Of Actual

We Are Part Of A Mystery, A Splendid Mystery Within Which We Must Attempt To Orient Ourselves If We Are To Have A Sense Of Our Own Nature.

It Felt Very Good To Have Him Walking Beside Her. Good Like Rest And Quiet, Like Something You Could Live Without But You Needed Anyway. That You Had To Learn How To Miss, And Then You'd Never Stop Missing It.

There Is So Little To Remember Of Anyone - An Anecdote, A Conversation At A Table. But Every Memory Is Turned Over And Over Again, Every Word, However Chance, Written In The Heart In The Hope That Memory Will Fulfill Itself, And Become Flesh, And That The Wanderers Will Find A Way Home, And The Perished, Whose Lack We Always Feel, Will Step Through The Door Finally And Stroke Our Hair With Dreaming Habitual Fondness Not Having Meant To Keep Us Waiting Long.

Now That I Look Back, It Seems To Me That In All That Deep Darkness A Miracle Was Preparing. So I Am Right To Remember It As A Blessed Time, And Myself As Waiting In Confidence, Even If I Had No Idea What I Was Waiting For.

I Like A Book To Be Full Of The Memory Of What It Is, A Voice In An Endless Conversation, And Yet At The Same Time To Be New.