Peter Matthiessen

“I grow into these mountains like a  moss. I am bewitched. The blinding snow peaks and the clarion air, the  sound of earth and heaven in the silence, the requiem birds, the mythic  beasts, the flags, great horns, and old carved stones, the silver ice in  the black river, the Kang, the Crystal Mountain. Also, I love the  common miracles-the murmur of my friends at evening, the clay fires of  smudgy juniper, the coarse dull food, the hardship and simplicity, the  contentment of doing one thing at a time… gradually my mind has cleared  itself, and wind and sun pour through my head, as through a bell. Though  we talk little here, I am never lonely; I am returned into myself. In  another life-this isn’t what I know, but how I feel- these mountains  were my home; there is a rising of forgotten knowledge, like a spring  from hidden aquifers under the earth. To glimpse one’s own true nature  is a kind of homegoing, to a place East of the Sun, West of the Moon-  the homegoing that needs no home, like that waterfall on the supper Suli Gad that turns to mist before touching the earth and rises once again  to the sky.”

– Peter Matthiessen

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