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There is an immense sadness to this book, especially at the end, but it is a sadness that is squarely faced and thus in a sense overcome. It is the sadness that the past inevitably has, that these things happened and those did not, a life was given to this and not to that, a happiness that seemed available was not achieved. It is a sadness that the reality of our lives always has, but to find it expressed with such clarity and poignance in a work of art is rare.
By David GuyDecember 1980October 1980Using another as a means of satisfaction and security is not love. Love is never security; love is a state in which there is no desire to be secure; it is a state of vulnerability.
J. Krishnamurti
I often feel, in this mixture of silence, isolation, ignorance and pettiness, that if I were struck by a virus, I wouldn’t fight it; I’d give up and implode and disappear. Dangerous signals, those. Not that I will put any effort into taking my life — I feel in large measure that it’s already taken. So I have to leave this place, and fight to get it back.
By Linne GravestockOctober 1980As I trudge up the road from the bus stop, I pause to catch my breath as well as the view. Before me loom towering white cliffs; beneath are the lush fields and orchards of the moshav, and beyond them is the Sea of Galilee or the Kinneret, as it is called in Hebrew, “the violin.” The curving road is lined with small stone houses; I had been told that Elyah’s was the last hut, on the highest slope.
By Leonard RogoffSeptember 1980Within the intuition of magic is an inborn drive to always remain on the edge. The artmagician appears to be mad or, at least, very strange. He goes to the gas station or restaurant and eyes follow him. He is feared or admired; it matters little which. His passage leaves a backwash of affection.
By Roxy GordonAugust 1980Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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