I Felt That Paris Was

I Had Seen A Herd Of Buffalo, One Hundred And Twenty-nine Of Them, Come Out Of The Morning Mist Under A Copper Sky, One By One, As If The Dark And Massive, Iron-like Animals With The Mighty Horizontally Swung Horns Were Not Approaching, But Were Being Created Before My Eyes And Sent Out As They Were Finished.

It Is A Sad Hardship And Slavery To People Who Live In Towns, That In Their Movements They Know Of One Dimension Only; They Walk Along The Line As If They Were Led On A String. The Transition From The Line To The Plane Into The Two Dimensions, When You Wander Across A Field Or Through A Wood, Is A Splendid Liberation To The Slaves, Like The French Revolution. But In The Air You Are Taken Into The Full Freedom Of The Three Dimensions; After Long Ages Of Exile And Dreams The Homesick Heart Throws Itself Into The Arms Of Space.

One Must In This Lower World Love Many Things To Know Finally What One Loves The Best.

A Great Artist Is Never Poor.

In Africa, When You Pick Up A Book Worth Reading, Out Of The Deadly Consignments Which Good Ships Are Always Being Made To Carry Out All The Way From Europe, You Read It As An Author Would Like His Book To Be Read, Praying To God That He May Have It In Him To Go On As Beautifully As He Has Begun. Your Mind Runs, Transported, Upon A Fresh Deep Green Track.