Notes to a Friend
From this window it is always a ragged moon.
2. Eight inches of fresh snow--blowing, drifting--and I cannot see the road from the house.
3. It is not impossible, or quite so dreary. For example, in his entry for December 6, 1987, in A Year of the Hunter (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1994), Czeslaw Milosz wrote:
This is the secret of that time: unknown to anyone in America, just a petty bureaucrat in one of the satellite embassies, I scribbled away, writing, translating poets, decked out in the cloak of my importance in that distant land. I can imagine someone commenting: "How petty such motives are! How he unmasks himself, confessing that he was a slave to his personal ambitions!" But fate was a factor here, and the understanding of certain rules of the game ought not discredit someone unless he is a hypocrite.