Dawn Is Born At Midnight.

The Problem Of Synchronicity Has Puzzled Me For A Long Time, Ever Since The Middle Twenties, When I Was Investigating The Phenomena Of The Collective Unconscious And Kept On Coming Across Connections Which I Simply Could Not Explain As Chance Groupings Or "runs." What I Found Were "coincidences" Which Were Connected So Meaningfully That Their "chance" Concurrence Would Represent A Degree Of Improbability That Would Have To Be Expressed By An Astronomical Figure.

Moreover, My Ancestors' Souls Are Sustained By The Atmosphere Of The House, Since I Answer For Them The Questions That Their Lives Once Left Behind. I Carve Out Rough Answers As Best I Can. I Have Even Drawn Them On The Walls. It Is As If A Silent, Greater Family, Stretching Down The Centuries, Were Peopling The House.

The Doctor Is Effective Only When He Himself Is Affected. Only The Wounded Physician Heals.

Life Has Always Seemed To Me Like A Plant That Lives On Its Rhizome. Its True Life Is Invisible, Hidden In The Rhizome. The Part That Appears Above Ground Lasts Only A Single Summer. Then It Withers Away—an Ephemeral Apparition. When We Think Of The Unending Growth And Decay Of Life And Civilizations, We Cannot Escape The Impression Of Absolute Nullity. Yet I Have Never Lost A Sense Of Something That Lives And Endures Underneath The Eternal Flux. What We See Is The Blossom, Which Passes. The Rhizome Remains.

The Unexpected And The Incredible Belong In This World. Only Then Is Life Whole.