Truth Is No Rounder Than

And How Does God Speak To You?" "in The Language Of Everything That Is Beautiful.

The Shelf Was Filled With Books That Were Hard To Read, That Could Devastate And Remake One's Soul, And That, When They Were Finished, Had A Kick Like A Mule.

Winter Then In Its Early And Clear Stages, Was A Purifying Engine That Ran Unhindered Over City And Country, Alerting The Stars To Sparkle Violently And Shower Their Silver Light Into The Arms Of Bare Upreaching Trees. It Was A Mad And Beautiful Thing That Scoured Raw The Souls Of Animals And Man, Driving Them Before It Until They Loved To Run. And What It Did To Northern Forests Can Hardly Be Described, Considering That It Iced The Branches Of The Sycamores On Chrystie Street And Swept Them Back And Forth Until They Rang Like Ranks Of Bells.

Perhaps He Was A Fool, But He Thought That If A Work Were Truly Great You Would Only Have To Read It Once And You Would Be Stolen From Yourself, Desperately Moved, Changed Forever.

Really The Best Way To Learn About Something Is Simply To Read It And Not Make A Scientific Theory Of Interpretation.