Size / Zoom
Letters from a Travelling Man

It wasn’t noon when we arrived—I could easily have gone on—but I’m completely exhausted and I’m hoping that a night’s rest will restore me. With any luck, I’ll be on the move bright and early, and the islands will be looking very different. We’ll see.

I’m doing it wrong, I can tell.

I’ll write again,


Probably I’m just tired, but at the moment I confess I really don’t know why you thought I should do this.
The Age of Swirling Mist

All I thought of, in the evening when they left, was of all the people Diwn was on his way to see, and though I could not imagine it, not clearly, the bustle of others like myself and Father, close together, talking and singing and making life and worlds. Me, I sat idly in the dead leaves fallen on top of one another slowly crumbling into dirt. I thought of what I had, and I had Father, and I had wicker, and I had birds, I had swimming, I had carving. Newly, I had that old Gurthern. These things were not enough.

What simple tenderness the three of us shared was flown to bits, sent up into the air with the dirt that burst in springs up from our friend’s filthy feet.
From the Archives:
Else This, Nothing Ever Grows
To be held by a bear—this made me feel as though I might belong.