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464 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2001
the high places
The high places have an awful, harsh beauty of their own, compounded of light and silence and the grim, enduring rock. There are no soft outlines, no shady places. These mountains are still and naked and terrible, not so much rejecting life as indifferent to it. For life has established a foothold even here.
night swims
At night the water slides over your body warm and silky, a mysterious element, unresistant, flowing, yet incredibly buoyant. In the dark you slip through it, unquestionably accepting the night's mood of grace and silence, a little drugged with wine, a little spellbound with the night, your body mysterious and pale and silent in the mysterious water, and at your slowly moving feet and hands streaming trails of phosphorescence, like streaming trails of stars. Still streaming stars you climb the dark ladder to the dark rock, shaking showers of stars from your very fingertips, most marvellously and mysteriously renewed and whole again.
Thinking of them―and it is impossible not to think of them a good deal―with their tired faces, their fruitless journeyings, their vicarious pleasures, their ersatz culture, their endless self-delusions, one cannot help but contrast them with Henry, who started out on his own nomadic trail at about the same time as they did, with probably an equal amount of talent. Henry never had time to learn perfect French nor to acquire a European polish. He was too busy painting, all his energies engaged on the thing he had to say, on proving his passionate belief that you can fly for the willing of it.
To accomplish anything it is obvious that a talent is not enough. You need a motive, an aim, an incentive, an overwhelming interest―be it ambition or fear or curiosity or only the necessity to fill your belly. You need a star to steer by, a cause, a creed, an idea, a passionate attachment. Something must beckon you or nothing is done―something about which you ask no questions.
As if in answer to this thought there is a letter from Henry, scribbled in reply to one of ours that must have conveyed all too clearly our misgivings, our mood of hesitation and incapacity. The message of it comes singing and clear, unequivocal, untinged by doubt. Go on then, fly!