In The Beginning Was The Word, And

A Word Has Power In And Of Itself. It Comes From Nothing Into Sound And Meaning; It Gives Origin To All Things.

My Father Was A Painter And He Taught Art. He Once Said To Me, 'i Never Knew An Indian Child Who Could Not Draw.'

Once In His Life, A Man Ought To Concentrate His Mind Upon The Remembered Earth, I Believe. He Ought To Give Himself Up To A Particular Landscape In His Experience, To Look At It From As Many Angles As He Can, To Wonder About It, To Dwell Upon It. He Ought To Imagine That He Touches It With His Hands At Every Season And Listens To The Sounds That Are Made Upon It. He Ought To Imagine The Creatures There And All The Faintest Motions Of The Wind. He Ought To Recollect The Glare Of Noon And All The Colors Of The Dawn And Dusk.

The First Word Gives Origin To The Second, The First And Second To The Third, And The Third To The Fourth, And So On. You Cannot Begin With The Second Word.

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.