And literature becomes an escape,
not from, but into living.
– Cyril Connolly
. . . . .
ALL THIS
.
All this I do inside me,
in the huge court of my memory.
There I have by me the sky, the earth,
the sea, and all things in them
which I have been able to perceive . . .
There too I encounter myself . . .
– St. Augustine
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