t h e s a l o n
Sorting the Fragments
Among them, I looked up into faces of every race, all ages, at least two genders, every faith or none. At moments, undone with helpless gratitude, I would weep: "They are so good to me," I wrote on my slate. I could scarcely bear the weight of it. They were so good to all who lay before them, helpless and afraid. How did they stand up to it themselves, this goodness?
Paul J. Sampson
Rousseau's "Sleeping Gypsy"
Is there an "I" behind all the cloaks and masks, all the grease paint and false faces, all the props and costumes? And is this "I" somehow forever penetrating and penetrated--joined to the Mystery, like a man to a woman, until all is liquefaction and, in one never beginning or ending spurt, water is forever returned to the sea?