On a Sunday morning sitting by the high window paralleling the wall under the garden under the trees under the sky from which it rains—is—raining on it all comes the idea to record this, and as part at this point in the preparation or the writing already of the book on surrender—and—catch. I have reopened the fat folder of comments and am sick of reading, rereading, again reading again: I must begin, I must begin, not by responding to these responses or by reading them once more to see what modifications or additions or strictures I must apply to what I have written on surrender already. No, I must surrender, instead, to this rained—out Sunday morning — and mean what by surrendering to it? My dear fellow (Somebody asks), is there no discipline (left in you)? Are you telling me, whoever I might consider being, that you're jotting down whatever comes into your (ravenous, starved) mind? Yessirree, says I—whoever—I—might—consider—being, you have done nothing worse than hit the nail on the head, which, as you should not be the last to know, is if anywhere within which the mind is located. I know, poverino, if I may so put it, you didn't mean to hit the mind, if only indirectly, and now don't mind having done it, or I don't mind whether you mind or not, but you did hit it, and the hole you made shows it empty, delighted to spill whatever enters it lest its emptiness, which it reads as purity, be disturbed. A delightful way, my good fellow, to talk about surrender.