The Whole Shadow Of Man Is Only

And As To Experience-well, Think How Little Some Good Poets Have Had, Or How Much Some Bad Ones Have.

Topography Displays No Favorites; North's As Near As West. More Delicate Than The Historians' Are The Map-makers' Colors.

Dreams Were The Worst. Of Course I Dreamed Of Food And Love, But They Were Pleasant Rather Than Otherwise. But Then I'd Dream Of Things Like Slitting A Baby's Throat, Mistaking It For A Baby Goat. I'd Have Nightmares Of Other Islands Stretching Away From Mine, Infinities Of Islands, Islands Spawning Islands, Like Frogs' Eggs Turning Into Polliwogs Of Islands, Knowing That I Had To Live On Each And Every One, Eventually, For Ages, Registering Their Flora, Their Fauna, Their Geography.

Think Of The Long Trip Home. Should We Have Stayed Home And Thought Of Here? Where Should We Be Today?

The Art Of Losing Isn't Hard To Master.