Once, in the early days of my desolution, I thought I might learn to write in the language of the spiders. Now, led by the Child, I am on my way to it. The true language, I know now, is that speech in silence in which we first communicated, the Child and I, in the forest, when I was asleep. It is the language I used in my childhood, and some memory, intangibly there by not quite audible, of our marvelous conversations, comes to me again at the very edge of sleep, a language my tongue almost rediscovers and which would, I believe, reveal the secrets of the universe to me the language whose every syllable is a gesture of reconciliation. I spoke it in my childhood. I must discover it again.
"I have just the question for you: who are you?" "I just told you," said the young man. "No, you told me about the clothes you wear. You told me your name, where you’re from, what you've done, the things you've studied. Your problem is, you don’t know who you are. Let me tell you who you are. You are a ray of God's own light."
