The Horse Could Not Do

What I Really Like To Do Is To Sit Quietly And Write. All That Other Stuff Is A Problem. Publication To Reception To Negotiation To... Everything, It's A Problem. And I Like To Sit Outside For Long Periods Of Time And Just Be In The Tranquility Of Nature. That's What I Like.

You’ll Join Me Sooner Than You Know In A Place With . . . No Illusions, Where The Truth Is The Only Architecture, The Only Color, The Only Sound--where That Which We Sense Merely On Occasion, And Which Takes Us Up And Gives Us The Rare And Beautiful Glimpses Of The Things We Truly Love, Flows In Deep Rivers And Tumbles About Like Clouds In The Sky.

Perhaps Things Are Most Beautiful When They Are Not Quite Real; When You Look Upon A Scene As An Outsider, And Come To Possess It In Its Entirety And Forever; When You Live In The Present With The Lucidity And Feeling Of Memory; When, For Want Of Connection, The World Deepens And Becomes Art.

That's What The Left Is Always Doing. They Have An Ideal, And They Want People To Conform To It. When People Don't Conform To It, They End Up Being Beaten Into The Mold. And Beaten Sometimes Hard Enough So That If They Don't Fit, Then They Kill Them. That's What Happened In The Soviet Union And China.

Such A Thing As The Child Left Alone To Die In The Hallway Was Unknown On The Marsh. But Here, In The Dawn, Was Mortality Itself. In The City Were Places To Fall From Which One Could Never Emerge -- Dark Dreams And Slow Death, The Death Of Children, Suffering Without Grace Or Redemption, Ultimate And Eternal Loss. The Memory Of The Child Stayed With Him. But That Was Not To Be The End Of It, For Reality Went Around In A Twisting Ring. Even The Irredeemable Would Be Redeemed, And There Was A Balance For Everything. There Had To Be.