When I Was Twelve, I

I Got The Idea That To Write Books Would Be The Best Way To Spend A Life. I Never Thought Of Anything Else That Seemed Like Half As Much Fun, Although In My Next Life I Would Like To Be An Architect, Too, So I Can Have An Easier Time Restoring Houses.

Sometimes The Valley Below Is Like A Bowl Filled Up With Fog. I Can See Hard Green Figs On Two Trees And Pears On A Tree Just Below Me. A Fine Crop Coming In. May Summer Last A Hundred Years.

It’s Daunting To Find The Language So Foreign, So Distant, But Also So Thrilling. One Is Absolved Of Responsibility When The Language Is Incomprehensible.

Like Fanning Through A Deck Of Cards, My Mind Flashes On The Thousand Chances, Trivial To Profound, That Converged To Re-create This Place. Any Arbitrary Turning Along The Way And I Would Be Elsewhere; I Would Be Different. Where Did The Expression "a Place In The Sun" First Come From? My Rational Thought Process Cling Always To The Idea Of Free Will, Random Event; My Blood, However, Streams Easily Along A Current Of Fate.

Anytime The Perfume Of Orange And Lemon Groves Wafts In The Window; The Human Body Has To Feel Suffused With A Languorous Well-being.