For a year or two when I was a child, my older brother bought a Penguin book each Saturday morning, and he took me with him.
The end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. - T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding
So I give her this month and the next Though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered already So many of its days intolerable or perplexed But so many more happy: Who has left a scent on my life and left my walls Dancing over and over with her shadow...
So that if now alone I must pursue this life, it will be not only A drag from numbered stone to numbered stone But a ladder of angels, river turning tidal - Louis MacNeice, Autumn Journal
I think of where it must be on the maps in Imago Mundi.