I Have A Longing For

The Tree Was So Old, And Stood There So Alone, That His Childish Heart Had Been Filled With Compassion; If No One Else On The Farm Gave It A Thought, He Would At Least Do His Best To, Even Though He Suspected That His Child's Words And Child's Deeds Didn't Make Much Difference. It Had Stood There Before He Was Born, And Would Be Standing There After He Was Dead, But Perhaps, Even So, It Was Pleased That He Stroked Its Bark Every Time He Passed, And Sometimes, When He Was Sure He Wasn't Observed, Even Pressed His Cheek Against It.

And It's A Disquieting Thought That Not Even The Past Is Done With, Even That Continues To Change, As If In Reality There Is Only One Time, For Everything, One Time For Every Purpose Under Heaven. One Single Second, One Single Landscape, In Which What Happens Activates And Deactivates What Has Already Happened In Endless Chain Reactions, Like The Processes That Take Place In The Brain, Perhaps, Where Cells Suddenly Bloom And Die Away, All According To The Way The Winds Of Consciousness Are Blowing.

As A Person, I'm Polite - I Want To Please.

I Have A Longing For Fiction - To Try To Believe In It And To Disappear Into It.

I Never Read The Translation Before Publication. The Most Important Things For Me Is That The Emotion Is Captured In Such A Way That The Feelings That Are In The Original Are There, Much More Than The Details, If They Are Right Or Wrong.