LETTERS 

The most marvelous feeling for the writer was to feel the speed and rotation of the earth and to bring his vision past the horizon as far as it could go around the physical texture of the globe.

Were we still, he thought, naked and in awe! Then we would produce our beautiful limitations. There was this nakedness of a sort, a kind of awe, a recognition between beings who tested each other for the reality of it. Conditions were created through acts; acts led to discovery; discovery to assimilation; assimilation to freedom; freedom to further acts. What couldn't be assimilated was projected out among things. This must have been the way it was at the beginning. All that life had to offer in pure emotion being lived; flowing through the original mind.

The writer had these thoughts the moment he felt the world a seething kind of hell where the devils had sway; where the good and beautiful is destroyed by mania. He had learned at any early age that one must have detachment and disinterest so the soul may live. It was brought to life through a love that seeks the light of day. Only the soul had the courage to dream.

He had to admit that the road one travels are diverse. They spread out further from the center. They passed through strange scenes and dangers but they did pass. Ah, the loveliness of the roads, the dangers, the sentimental and grotesque scenes!

In pure and perfect silence he convinced himself that without embracing what one passes through there was no progress. And without progress there was nothing but illusion. And with illusion there was nothing but submersion of the light into further darkness until the darkness fashioned itself a kind of light. Then the sacrifices, sacrifices made!

Ah writer, you must see the good things; how the soul is always there ready to break and develop in the right conditions.

David Eide
August 22, 1999
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