Winter 1967 • Vol. XXIX No. 1 NonfictionJanuary 1, 1967 |

A Bunch of Marigolds

I have been ill, as you perhaps have heard. This is the second time I have been knocked out. But this time I seem to have come out of it with a clearer head. Perhaps it derived from a feeling that I might have died or, worse, have been left with a mind permanently incapacitated. That it has not happened is a piece of pure good fortune. As a result of the enforced idleness and opportunity for thought, it may be, I have brought hard down on the facts of a situation which can no longer be delayed in the bringing of it to a final srummary. I must now, in other words, make myself dear. I must gather together the stray ends of what I have been thinking and make my full statement as to their meaning or quit. ….What will come of my "idleness," which has been forced on me by my illness, it is hard to say. Will I be able to maintain it? I should passionately like to use it for the further development of my reading and my thinking and my doing if I can. I don't want to go back to the pra

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