I read, in the green swing, that first page from a large, white book, and I was left unable to believe, not that someone could write it, but that I was capable of receiving it, of deciphering it, that I was able to transpose it from another mind’s logic into the logic of my own, to dress the fine, symmetrical joints of the supple-boned skeleton of the text with the incarnation of my own life, of my own memories.
