For in the immediate world, everything is to be discerned, for him who can discern it, and central and simply, without either dissection into science, or digestion into art, but with the whole of consciousness, seeking to perceive it as it stands: so that the aspect of a street in sunlight can roar in the heart of itself as a symphony, perhaps as no symphony can: and all of consciousness is shifted from the imagined, the revisive, to the effort to perceive simply the cruel radiation of what is.

We are talking now of summer evenings in Knoxville, Tennessee, in the time that I lived there so successfully disguised to myself as a child.

Children, taught either years beneath their intelligence or miles wide of relevance to it, or both: their intelligence becomes hopelessly bewildered, drawn off its centers, bored, or atrophied.

The mere attempt to examine my own confusion would consume volumes.

The goal is the same: life itself; and the price is the same; life itself.

All of consciousness is shifted from the imagined, the revisive, to the effort to perceive simply the cruel radiance of what is

I suspect the fault...is in me: that I hate any job on earth, as a job and a hindrance and a semi-suicide.