And I know none of you read these things unless there's a picture.
So here's the picture:
Me and my good friend Spiro. In Norway. Man, I love this kid alot. Speaking with her has been long overdue. But I'm thinking there might be some bitterness there since I told her I mailed a letter and then I found it in my bag 3 days later, postage all ready to go...and where is it now? Iiiiin my bag. I'm a crappy friend. You should know that by now.
Anyhow, the irrelevant (yet still important) picture has very little to do with the remainder of this post, though I hope she likes it if she gets around to reading it.
"There was silence in the dark assembly long enough for me to have read my
book out yet again. At last the judge spoke.
'Are you answered?' he
'Yes,' said I.
The complaint was the answer. To have heard myself making it was to be
answered. Lightly men talk of saying what they mean. Often when he was teaching
me to write in Greek the Fox would say, 'Child, to say the very thing you really
mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you really mean;
that's the whole art and joy of words.' A glib saying. When the time comes to
you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at
the centre of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like,
been saying over and over, you'll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why
the gods do not speak to us openly, not let us answer. Till that word can be dug
out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they
meet us face to face till we have faces?"