The Most Exhausting Thing In Life Is

One Writes Not To Be Read But To Breathe...one Writes To Think, To Pray, To Analyze. One Writes To Clear One's Mind, To Dissipate One's Fears, To Face One's Doubts, To Look At One's Mistakes--in Order To Retrieve Them. One Writes To Capture And Crystallize One's Joy, But Also To Disperse One's Gloom. Like Prayer--you Go To It In Sorrow More Than Joy, For Help, A Road Back To 'grace'.

Great Problems That Face The World Today In Both The Private And The Public Sphere Cannot Be Solved By Women – Or By Men – Alone. They Can Only Be Surmounted By Men And Women Side By Side.

These Bright Roofs, These Steep Towers, These Jewel-lakes, These Skeins Of Railroad Line - All Spoke To Her And She Answered. She Was Glad They Were There. She Belonged To Them And They To Her. . . . She Had Not Lost It. She Was Touching It With Her Fingertips. This Was Flying: To Go Swiftly Over The Earth You Loved, Touching It Lightly With Your Fingertips, Holding The Railroads Lines In Your Hand To Guide You, Like A Skein Of Wool In A Spider-web Game - Like Following Ariadne's Thread Through The Minotaur's Maze, Where Would It Lead, Where?

And One Perfect Day Can Give Clues For A More Perfect Life.

What A Commentary On Our Civilization, When Being Alone Is Considered Suspect; When One Has To Apologize For It, Make Excuses, Hide The Fact That One Practices It—like A Secret Vice!