You darkness, that I come from, I love you more than all the fires that fence in the world.

It seems to me that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension, which we feel as paralysis because we no longer hear our astonished emotions living.

His vision, from the constantly passing bars, has grown so weary that it cannot hold anything else. It seems to him there are a thousand bars, and behind the bars, no world. As he paces in cramped circles, over and over, the movement of his powerful soft strides is like a ritual dance around a center in which a mighty will stands paralyzed. Only at times, the curtain of the pupils lifts, quietly. An image enters in, rushes down through the tense, arrested muscles, plunges into the heart and is gone.

The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.

Live your questions now, and perhaps even without knowing it, you will live along some distant day into your answers.

Speaking of August Rodin: He raised his world above us in an immense arc, and made it a part of nature.

Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, Must I write?