A Civilization That Denies Death Ends By

Literature Is The Expression Of A Feeling Of Deprivation, A Recourse Against A Sense Of Something Missing. But The Contrary Is Also True: Language Is What Makes Us Human. It Is A Recourse Against The Meaningless Noise And Silence Of Nature And History.

Enormous And Solid But Swaying, Beaten By The Wind But Chained, Murmur Of A Million Leaves Against My Window. Riot Of Trees, Surge Of Dark Green Sounds. The Grove, Suddenly Still, Is A Web Of Fronds And Branches.

Wisdom Lies Neither In Fixity Nor In Change, But In The Dialectic Between The Two.

It Is The Revolution, The Magical Word, The Word That Is Going To Change Everything, That Is Going To Bring Us Immense Delight And A Quick Death.

The Mexican...is Familiar With Death. [he] Jokes About It, Caresses It, Sleeps With It, Celebrates It. It Is One Of His Favorite Toys And His Most Steadfast Love.