Josephine Hart

There is an internal landscape, a geography of the soul; _x000D_ we search for its outlines in our lives. Those who _x000D_ are lucky enough to find it, ease like water over a stone, _x000D_ onto its fluid contours, and are home.

hen we mourn those who die young — those who have been robbed of time — we weep for lost joys. We weep for opportunities and pleasures we ourselves have never known. We feel sure that somehow that young body would have known the yearning delight for which we searched in vain all our lives.

Our sanity depends essentially on a narrowness of vision--the ability to select the elements vital to survival, while ignoring the great truths.