To Look Upon That Landscape In The

There Was Only The Dark Infinity In Which Nothing Was. And Something Happened. At The Distance Of A Star Something Happened, And Everything Began. The Word Did Not Come Into Being, But It Was. It Did Not Break Upon The Silence, But It Was Older Than The Silence And The Silence Was Made Of It.

My Line Of Vision Was Such That The Creature Filled The Moon Like A Fossil. It Had Gone There, I Thought, To Live And Die, For There, Of All Places, Was Its Small Definition Made Whole And Eternal

It Is Here That I Can Concentrate My Mind Upon The Remembered Earth. It Is Here That I Am Most Conscious Of Being, Here That Wonder Comes Upon My Blood, Here I Want To Live Forever; And It Is No Matter That I Must Die.

It's A Landscape That Has To Be Seen To Be Believed. And, As I Say On Occasion, It May Have To Be Believed In Order To Be Seen.

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.