Futures Not Achieved Are Only Branches Of

I Will Start Out This Evening With An Assertion: Fantasy Is A Place Where It Rains.

You Walk For Days Among Trees And Among Stones. Rarely Does The Eye Light On A Thing, And Then Only When It Has Recognized That Thing As The Sign Of Another Thing: A Print In The Sand Indicates The Tiger's Passage; A Marsh Announces A Vein Of Water; The Hibiscus Flower, The End Of Winter. All The Rest Is Silent And Interchangeable; Trees And Stones Are Only What They Are.

We Could Say, Then, That Man Is An Instrument The World Employs To Renew Its Own Image Constantly.

The Human Race Is A Zone Of Living Things That Should Be Defined By Tracing Its Confines.

Who Are We, Who Is Each One Of Us, If Not A Combination Of Experiences, Information, Books We Have Read, Things Imagined? Each Life Is An Encyclopedia, A Library, An Inventory Of Objects, A Series Of Styles, And Everything Can Be Constantly Shuffled And Reordered In Every Way Conceivable.