I Will Not Let Thee

Within Our Whole Universe The Story Only Has The Authority To Answer That Cry Of Heart Of Its Characters, That One Cry Of Heart Of Each Of Them: "who Am I?"

I Think All Sorrows Can Be Borne If You Put Them Into A Story Or Tell A Story About Them.

If Only I Could So Live And So Serve The World That After Me There Should Never Again Be Birds In Cages.

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.

Death - A Passage Outside The Range Of Imagination, But Within The Range Of Experience.