Death Is A Dramatic Accomplishment Of Absence;

People Dread Silence Because It Is Transparent; Like Clear Water, Which Reveals Every Obstacle—the Used, The Dead, The Drowned, Silence Reveals The Cast-off Words And Thoughts Dropped In To Obscure Its Clear Stream. And When People Stare Too Close To Silence They Sometimes Face Their Own Reflections, Their Magnified Shadows In The Depths, And That Frightens Them. I Know; I Know.

Writing An Autobiography, Usually Thought Of As A Looking Back, Can Just As Well Be A Looking Across Or Through, With The Passing Of Time Giving An X-ray Quality To The Eye.

I Have Discovered That My Freedom Is Within Me, And Nothing Can Destroy It.

But It Is Imperative, For Our Own Survival, That We Avoiid One Another, And What More Successful Means Of Avoidance Are There Than Words? Language Will Keep Us Safe From Human Onslaught, Will Express For Us Our Regret At Being Unable To Supply Groceries Or Love Or Peace.

Language, At Least, May Give Up The Secrets Of Life And Death, Leading Us Through The Maze To The Original Word As Monster Or Angel, To The Mournful Place Where We May Meet Job And Hear His Cry, 'how Long Will You Vex My Soul And Break Me In Pieces With Words?