The Purpose Of Our Life Is To

Here I Am, Safely Returned Over Those Peaks From A Journey Far More Beautiful And Strange Than Anything I Had Hoped For Or Imagined - How Is It That This Safe Return Brings Such Regret?

Figures Dark Beneath Their Loads Pass Down The Far Bank Of The River, Rendered Immortal By The Streak Of Sunset Upon Their Shoulders

Alec Wilkinson Is A Spare, Clear, And Lucid Writer Who Works In Stylistic Simplicity With Material That Is Not Simple At All.

My Eye Is Fixed Not On The Ending Of The Book But On The Feeling Of That Ending.

Where To Begin? Do We Measure The Relaxing Of The Feet? The Moment When The Eye Glimpses The Hawk, When Instinct Functions? For In This Pure Action, This Pure Moving Of The Bird, There Is No Time, No Space, But Only The Free Doing-being Of This Very Moment -now!