Most Of The People Are

Everyone Must Imagine His Own Snakes Because No One Else's Snakes Can Ever Be As Awful.

Some People Just Shouldn't Be Disturbed In Their Inclinations, Whether Large Or Small. A Reminder Can Instantly Turn Enthusiasm Into Aversion And Spoil Everything.

An Island Can Be Dreadful For Someone From Outside. Everything Is Complete, And Everyone Has His Obstinate, Sure And Self-sufficient Place. Within Their Shores, Everything Functions According To Rituals That Are As Hard As Rock From Repetition, And At The Same Time They Amble Through Their Days As Whimsically And Casually As If The World Ended At The Horizon.

It's A Funny Thing About Bogs. You Can Fill Them With Rocks And Sand And Old Logs And Make A Little Fenced-in Yard On Top With A Woodpile And Chopping Block - But Bogs Go Right On Behaving Like Bogs. Early In The Spring They Breathe Ice And Make Their Own Mist, In Remembrance Of The Time When They Had Black Water And Their Own Sedge Blossoming Untouched.

Before We Left, Grandmother Talked A Lot About The Arctic Night We Would Fly Through. 'isn't It A Mystical Word, "arctic"? Pure And Quite Hard. And Meridians. Isn't That Pretty? We're Going To Fly Along Them, Faster Than The Light Can Follow Us... Time Won't Be Able To Catch Us.