I Lived Rough, By My Wits, Was

One Human Life Is Deeper Than The Ocean. Strange Fishes And Sea-monsters And Mighty Plants Live In The Rock-bed Of Our Spirits. The Whole Of Human History Is An Undiscovered Continent Deep In Our Souls. There Are Dolphins, Plants That Dream, Magic Birds Inside Us. The Sky Is Inside Us. The Earth Is In Us.

The Higher The Artist, The Fewer The Gestures. The Fewer The Tools, The Greater The Imagination. The Greater The Will, The Greater The Secret Failure.

Reading, Therefore, Is A Co-production Between Writer And Reader. The Simplicity Of This Tool Is Astounding. So Little, Yet Out Of It Whole Worlds, Eras, Characters, Continents, People Never Encountered Before, People You Wouldn’t Care To Sit Next To In A Train, People That Don’t Exist, Places You’ve Never Visited, Enigmatic Fates, All Come To Life In The Mind, Painted Into Existence By The Reader’s Creative Powers. In This Way The Creativity Of The Writer Calls Up The Creativity Of The Reader. Reading Is Never Passive.

Beware Of The Stories You Read Or Tell; Subtly, At Night, Beneath The Waters Of Consciousness, They Are Altering Your World.

We Can Redream This World And Make The Dream Come Real. Human Beings Are Gods Hidden From Themselves.