I Guess There Was A War Going

It's Not That He Lacked Poetry. But His Poetry Was Of The Body, Not The Mind. He Spoke It In The Way He Moved, The Way He Held A Hammer, Rowed A Boat, Built A Fire. I, On The Other Hand, Was Like A Brain In A Box, A Beating Heart In A Coal Scuttle.

A Piano Might Fall On Your Head, He Said, But It Also Might Not. And In The Meantime You Never Know. Something Nice Might Happen.

I've Noticed That The Magic Getting Along With Someone Isn't Really Magic. If You Break It Down, You Can See How It Happens. You Say Something A Bit Off-center And See If They React. If They Get It, They Push It A Bit Further. Then It's Your Turn Again. And Theirs. And So On, Until It's Banter. Once It's Banter, It's Friendship.

I'd Like To Think Life Has Improved Since 1850, Despite The Long Hours We All Seem To Spend Slaving Over Hot Computers, But The Psychological Journeys Remain The Same - The Search For Love, Identity, A Meaningful Place In The World.

It Was Love, Of Course, Though I Didn't Know It Then And Finn Was Both Its Subject And Object. He Accepted Love Instinctively, Without Responsibility Or Conditions, Like A Wild Thing Glimpsed Through Trees.