A safe fortress of words, against Weltschmerz and mind-muddle and ignorance of things like Cartagena's door knockers and the stained-glass demons of Strasbourg Cathedral. A bright castle of words, reaching and reaching up into the sky, and flying immense wind-filled flags from its turrets. An apothecary's shop of words, healing the heart and soul, fragrant with balsam fir and bearberry, with chicory, elder, fennel and goat's rue, with Jamaican dogwood, juniper, linden, and lovage, and, always, with my often written-about sage.
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