What Is Man, When You Come To

I Have A Feeling That Wherever I May Be In The Future, I Will Be Wondering Whether There Is Rain At Ngong.

I Belong To An Ancient, Idle, Wild And Useless Tribe, Perhaps I Am Even One Of The Last Members Of It, Who For Many Thousands Of Years, In All Countries And Parts Of The World, Has, Now And Again, Stayed For A Time Among The Hard-working Honest People In Real Life, And Sometimes Has Thus Been Fortunate Enough To Create Another Sort Of Reality For Them, Which In Some Way Or Another, Has Satisfied Them. I Am A Storyteller.

It Is Little Silly To Be A Caricature Of Something Of Which You Know Very Little, And Which Means Very Little To You, But To Be Your Own Caricature — That Is The True Carnival!

Human Talk Is A Centrifugal Function, Ever In Flight Outwards From What Is On The Talker's Mind.

The Air Was Cold To The Lungs, The Long Grass Dripping Wet, And The Herbs On It Gave Out Their Spiced Astringent Scent. In A Little While On All Sides The Cicada Would Begin To Sing. The Grass Was Me , And The Air, The Distant Invisible Mountains Were Me, The Tired Oxen Were Me. I Breathed With The Slight Night-wind In The Thorn Trees.