But one had to go back to the beginning of things, always. Trace the thread of life - find the knot - untangle it.

A sickness ... defines margins, crystallizes the shape of things.

The snow again. White, white net of beauty, net of dream, trapping the earth, trapping the helpless heart of life.

But one had to go back to the beginning of things, always. Trace the thread of life - find the knot - untangle it.

A false vision was better than none.

The lush green of the fields became a rich gold that swayed sturdily under the wind and fell at last before the hands of the reapers.

The past ... is a dim avenue down which we may walk and find the diverging paths of terror and beauty and passion.