Bring home goats,

Bring children home

To their mothers.

P

What is it urges the mind to seek beauty? What is the challenge? Why go where there are no charts?

Beauty says it is a kind of love.

So, I make love, in my quiet room, the word symbolic of man, life’s continu­ity, my paper taken from reeds and trees. I write of birth, love, marriage and death, sensing that the unrecorded is vaster than the recorded. I sense the stum­bling: the past could be a gigantic storm, fog obliterating at moment of revela­tion, fog fumbling from man to man, saying come, saying stop. The past is a wave through which no swimmer passes. As surf it inundates, then vanishes. On windy nights, it moans at my window, beautiful and hideous. I struggle on.

P

I quote from my journal kept in exile:

For three days we have had little to eat, days of quarrels, bitterness and savagery.