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Everything is fast and fleeting around the little island;
the sea is never still, the clouds fly quickly into different
shapes, the colors change
from sunlight to mistlight, the trees are moving and the birds are always flying and
screaming.
This active little island was too elusive for me to catch in its own time. It was easier
to put as much of it as I could wherever it is you store such things, take it home to
Connecticut, and remember it all in my own time.
And after all this I don't believe I could really tell you of illustrating or bookmaking,
certainly not of the poetry of living and dying, nor of little children.
You already know it. You know it in your own lives, you know it in what is written, in
what you see and hear and feel and with children all around you.
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