God! Whose Hand Was I Holding?

Within, Walls Continued Upright, Bricks Met Neatly, Floors Were Firm, And Doors Were Sensibly Shut; Silence Lay Steadily Against The Wood And Stone Of Hill House, And Whatever Walked There, Walked Alone.

I Remember That I Stood On The Library Steps Holding My Books And Looking For A Minute At The Soft Hinted Green In The Branches Against The Sky And Wishing, As I Always Did, That I Could Walk Home Across The Sky Instead Of Through The Village.

Am I Walking Toward Something I Should Be Running Away From?

I Delight In What I Fear.

I Very Much Dislike Writing About Myself Or My Work, And When Pressed For Autobiographical Material Can Only Give A Bare Chronological Outline Which Contains No Pertinent Facts.