As to the mystery of my silence:I remained puzzledless by my soul’s retreat thanby its return, since it returned empty-handed—How deep it goes, this soul,like a child in a department store,seeking its mother—Perhaps it is like a diverwith only enough air in his tankto explore the depths for a few minutes or so—then the lungs send him back.But something, I was sure, opposed the lungs,possibly a death wish—(I use the word soul as a compromise).Of course, in a certain sense I was not empty-handed:I had my colored pencils.In another sense, that is my point:I had accepted substitutes.