I thought, driving through Richmond last night.
Something very profound about the synthesis of my being: about how only writing
composes it: how nothing makes a whole unless I am writing: now I have
forgotten what seemed so profound. The
rhododendron like coloured glass mounds at Kew.
May 31, 1933
(AWD 201)
 |
| Mounds at Kew, not Rhododendrons |
No comments:
Post a Comment