We're Both Thieves, Harvey Swick. I Take

Memory, Prophecy, And Fantasy— The Past, The Future, And The Dreaming Moment Between— Are All In One Country, Living One Immortal Day. To Know That Is Wisdom. To Use It Is The Art.

His Body And His Mind Went About Their Different Businesses. The Former, Freed From Conscious Instruction, Breathed, Rolled, Sweated, And Digested. The Latter Went Dreaming.

Well, It Was Most Likely Too Late; There Would Not Be Time For Me To Flagellate Myself For Every Dishonorable Deed In That List, Nor Any Chance To Make Good The Harms I’d Done. Minor Harms, To Be Sure, In The Scheme Of Things; But Large Enough To Regret.

We Have Great Cities To Visit: New York And Washington, Paris And London; And Further East, And Older Than Any Of These, The Legendary City Of Samarkand, Whose Crumbling Palaces And Mosques Still Welcome Travelers On The Silk Road. Weary Of Cities? Then We’ll Take To The Wilds. To The Islands Of Hawaii And The Mountains Of Japan, To Forests Where Civil War Dead Still Lie, And Stretches Of Sea No Mariner Ever Crossed. They All Have Their Poetry: The Glittering Cities And The Ruined, The Watery Wastes And The Dusty; I Want To Show You Them All. I Want To Show You Everything.

A Man Kills The Thing He Loves, And He Must Die A Little Himself.