The Summer Of 1943 At Exeter Was

There Was No Harm In Taking Aim, Even If The Target Was A Dream.

What I Mean Is, I Love Winter, And When You Really Love Something, Then It Loves You Back, In Whatever Way It Has To Love.

But I Was Used To Finding Something Deadly In Things That Attracted Me; There Was Always Something Deadly Lurking In Anything I Wanted, Anything I Loved.

This Was The Tree, And It Seemed To Me Standing There To Resemble Those Men, The Giants Of Your Childhood, Whom You Encounter Years Later And Find That They Are Not Merely Smaller In Relation To Your Growth, But They Are Absolutely Smaller, Shrunken By Age. In This Double Demotion The Old Giants Have Become Pygmies While You Were Looking The Other Way.

As I Said, This Was My Sarcastic Summer. It Was Only Long After That I Recognized Sarcasm As The Protest Of People Who Are Weak.