Every person’s memory is their own private literature.
— Aldous Huxley
And I have memories that stretch across several decades of early evenings at Hartwick Pines state park in northern Michigan.
If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?
–Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Nobel laureate for literature, Soviet Gulag survivor
And who shall say–whatever disenchantment follows–that we ever forget magic; or that we can ever betray, on this leaden earth, the apple-tree, the singing, and the gold?
Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward, Angel
Anticipating Spring on a winter’s day.
In the light, the earth remains our first and our last love. Our brothers and sisters are breathing under the same sky as we; justice is a living thing. Now is born that strange joy which helps one live and die, and which we shall never again postpone to a later time.
Albert Camus, The Rebel