All Writers Are Exiles Wherever

When Our Thoughts Revolve We Are So Often Deceived Into Supposing That Their Violent Movement Is An Indication Of Their Vigorous Originality, The Upheaval Of Prejudice And Fixed Ideas, When All The Time It Is More Likely That The Machine Which Contains Them Is Only An Elaborate Cement-mixer, And When The Thinking Is Finished, Those Whirling Thoughts Are Smoothed Into The Unchanged Conventional Mould And Seeing Them Set Solid Enough To Dance, To Build, To Travel Upon, We Would Never Dream Of Their First Deceit, Of The Hope Once Roused By Their Apparently Violent Reorganisation.

The Sun Is All Love And Murder, Judgement, The Perpetual Raid Of Conscience, Paratrooping Light Which Opens Like A Snow-blossom In The Downward Drift Of Death. Wherever I Turn - The Golden Cymbals Of Judgement, The Summoning Of The Torturers Of Light.

It Would Be Nice To Travel If You Knew Where You Were Going And Where You Would Live At The End Or Do We Ever Know, Do We Ever Live Where We Live, We're Always In Other Places, Lost, Like Sheep.

He Sees The Land Of Meaning, And One Path To It, And The So-called “normal” People Traveling Swiftly And In Comfort To The Land; He Does Not Include The Shipwrecked People Who Arrive By Devious Lonely Routes, And The Many Who Dwell In The Land In The Beginning.

She Grew More And More Silent About What Really Mattered. She Curled Inside Herself Like One Of Those Black Chimney Brushes, The Little Shellfish You See On The Beach, And You Touch Them, And Then Go Inside And Don’t Come Out.