Anything Is Bearable If You Can Make

My Line Of Vision Was Such That The Creature Filled The Moon Like A Fossil. It Had Gone There, I Thought, To Live And Die, For There, Of All Places, Was Its Small Definition Made Whole And Eternal

There Was Only The Dark Infinity In Which Nothing Was. And Something Happened. At The Distance Of A Star Something Happened, And Everything Began. The Word Did Not Come Into Being, But It Was. It Did Not Break Upon The Silence, But It Was Older Than The Silence And The Silence Was Made Of It.

I Have A Pretty Good Knowledge Of The Indian World By Virtue Of Living On Several Different Reservations And Being Exposed To Several Different Cultures And Languages.

Writing Engenders In Us Certain Attitudes Toward Language. It Encourages Us To Take Words For Granted. Writing Has Enabled Us To Store Vast Quantities Of Words Indefinitely. This Is Advantageous On The One Hand But Dangerous On The Other. The Result Is That We Have Developed A Kind Of False Security Where Language Is Concerned, And Our Sensitivity To Language Has Deteriorated. And We Have Become In Proportion Insensitive To Silence.

I Wonder If, In The Dark Night Of The Sea, The Octopus Dreams Of Me.