Weary of Words

January 17th

Weary of  Words

Zero weather. Good work yesterday afternoon with the novices, cutting wood at the hermitage. Bright and cold. I went over to the Methodist Seminary at Asbury.

On the way over and back, stopped to take pictures at Shaker-town. Marvelous, silent, vast spaces around the old buildings. Cold, pure light, and some grand trees. So cold my finger could no longer feel the shutter release. Some marvelous subjects. How the blank side of a frame house can be so completely beautiful I can not imagine. A completely miraculous achievement of forms.

The moments of eloquent silent and emptiness in Shakertown stayed with me more than anything else--like a vision.

Tired of war, tired of letters, tired of books. Shaving today, saw new lines under the eyes, a new hollowness, a beginning of weariness. Well. So it is good.

What matters most is secret, not said. this begins to be the most real and the most certain dimension.

I had been secretly worried about my witting, especially on peace, getting condemned. Nothing to worry about. Whenever I am really wrong, it will be easy enough to change. But it is strange that such things should be regarded with suspicion. I know this is strange that such things should be regarded with suspicion.  I know this is wrong. Weary of blindness that afflicts all men, but most of all the blindness afflicting those who ought to see.

January 12 and 19, 1962, IV.194-95