Roads Are A Record Of Those Who

The Bigness Of The World Is Redemption. Despair Compresses You Into A Small Space, And A Depression Is Literally A Hollow In The Ground. To Dig Deeper Into The Self, To Go Underground, Is Sometimes Necessary, But So Is The Other Route Of Getting Out Of Yourself, Into The Larger World, Into The Openness In Which You Need Not Clutch Your Story And Your Troubles So Tightly To Your Chest.

A Labyrinth Is A Symbolic Journey . . . But It Is A Map We Can Really Walk On, Blurring The Difference Between Map And World.

The Object We Call A Book Is Not The Real Book, But Its Potential, Like A Musical Score Or Seed. It Exists Fully Only In The Act Of Being Read; And Its Real Home Is Inside The Head Of The Reader, Where The Symphony Resounds, The Seed Germinates. A Book Is A Heart That Only Beats In The Chest Of Another.

Perhaps It’s That You Can’t Go Back In Time, But You Can Return To The Scenes Of A Love, Of A Crime, Of Happiness, And Of A Fatal Decision; The Places Are What Remain, Are What You Can Possess, Are What Is Immortal. They Become The Tangible Landscape Of Memory, The Places That Made You, And In Some Way You Too Become Them. They Are What You Can Possess And In The End What Possesses You.

Sure, You Can Say Nuclear Power Is Somewhat Less Carbon-intensive Than Burning Fossil Fuels For Energy; Beating Your Children To Death With A Club Will Prevent Them From Getting Hit By A Car. Ravaging The Earth By One Irreparable Means Is Not A Sensible Way To Prevent It From Being Destroyed By Another. There Are Alternatives. We Should Choose Them And Use Them.