Once we have driven past Mundo Nuevo trace safely to this beach house perched between ocean and green, churning forest the intellect appraises objects surely, even the bare necessities of style are turned to use, like those plain iron tools he salvages from shipwreck, hewing a prose as odorous as raw wood to the adze; out of such timbers came our first book, our profane Genesis whose Adam speaks that prose which, blessing some sea-rock, startles itself with poetry's surprise, in a green world, one without metaphors, like Christofer he bears in speech mnemonic as a missionary's the Word to savages, its shape an earthen, water-bearing bessel's whose sprinkling alters us into good Fridays who recite His praise, parroting our master's style and voice, we make his language ours, converted cannibals we learn with him to eat the flesh of Christ. . . .
. . . So from this house
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