It Is Said In Java That The

Soon The Child’s Clear Eye Is Clouded Over By Ideas And Opinions, Preconceptions, And Abstractions. Simple Free Being Becomes Encrusted With The Burdensome Armor Of The Ego. Not Until Years Later Does An Instinct Come That A Vital Sense Of Mystery Has Been Withdrawn. The Sun Glints Through The Pines And The Heart Is Pierced In A Moment Of Beauty And Strange Pain, Like A Memory Of Paradise. After That Day, We Become Seekers.

In Nonfiction, You Have That Limitation, That Constraint, Of Telling The Truth.

The Great Stillness In These Landscapes That Once Made Me Restless Seeps Into Me Day By Day, And With It The Unreasonable Feeling That I Have Found What I Was Searching For Without Ever Having Discovered What It Was.

Amazingly, We Take For Granted That Instinct For Survival, Fear Of Death, Must Separate Us From The Happiness Of Pure And Uninterpreted Experience, In Which Body, Mind, And Nature Are The Same. This Retreat From Wonder, The Backing Away Like Lobsters Into Safe Crannies, The Desperate Instinct That Our Life Passes Unlived, Is Reflected In Proliferation Without Joy, Corrosive Money Rot, The Gross Befouling Of The Earth And Air And Water From Which We Came.

The Purpose Of Our Life Is To Help Others Through It.