the beginning

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Which on of us, in their moments of ambition, has not dreamed of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical, without rhythm and without rhyme, supple enough and rugged enough to adapt oneself to the lyrical impulses of the soul, the undulations of reverie, the jibes of conscience?

"And I am sure that, as all pendulums reverse their swing, so eventually will the swollen cities rupture like dehiscent wombs and disperse their children back to the countryside. This prophecy is underwritten by the tendency of the rich to do this already. Where the rich lead, the poor will follow, or try to." (John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley)