Sometimes, as he wrote, light glowed around him like the halo of a saint, or the mischievousness of a sinner, at his bare work desk.
He used words to fight loneliness - the loneliness of the farmers giving their hearts to the land day after day, year after year, until they became the dust from which they were made...the loneliness of the workers, giving their bodies to the factories, day after day, year after year, until they became the gears and grease themselves…and the loneliness of the servants, giving their souls to their patróns, day after day, year after year, until they became the rags and the buckets from which they served.
They were all working, the farmers, the workers, the servants, and the writer for subsistence, enough to live.
They were all working for shelter, enough wood and tin to build a small house.
They were all working for song, enough music to bring beauty to the world.
They were all working for nothing, and yet for everything.