Once In His Life A Man Ought

Your Imagination Comes To Life, And This, You Think, Is Where Creation Was Begun.

There Is A Great Good In Returning To A Landscape That Has Had Extraordinary Meaning In One's Life. It Happens That We Return To Such Places In Our Minds Irresistibly. There Are Certain Villages And Towns, Mountains And Plains That, Having Seen Them Walked In Them Lived In Them Even For A Day, We Keep Forever In The Mind's Eye. They Become Indispensable To Our Well-being; They Define Us, And We Say, I Am Who I Am Because I Have Been There, Or There.

Writing Engenders In Us Certain Attitudes Toward Language. It Encourages Us To Take Words For Granted. Writing Has Enabled Us To Store Vast Quantities Of Words Indefinitely. This Is Advantageous On The One Hand But Dangerous On The Other. The Result Is That We Have Developed A Kind Of False Security Where Language Is Concerned, And Our Sensitivity To Language Has Deteriorated. And We Have Become In Proportion Insensitive To Silence.

They Have Assumed The Names And Gestures Of Their Enemies, But Have Held On To Their Own, Secret Souls; And In This There Is A Resistance And An Overcoming, A Long Outwaiting.

We Are What We Imagine. Our Very Existence Consists In Our Imagination Of Ourselves. Our Best Destiny Is To Imagine, At Least, Completely, Who And What, And That We Are. The Greatest Tragedy That Can Befall Us Is To Go Unimagined.