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May 27 '41

Again it becomes like this: The night around him, and the whirling events of the past day, the past week brushing his mind, now lightly, now beguily [[strikethrough]] close by [[/strikethrough]], asking a thousand questions. And he must answer them, each in its turn, or be engulfed in a maelstrom of doubts, failures, and weaknesses.
How brave has he been? Has he spoken his personal truth in his paints, or has he painted according in the easy, accepted grooves of the past, of this applauding friends? Hundreds of visions of earth have been his, his to capture on canvas to tell his people of the bolder, the brighter truths of the wilderness of time and land and sea. The angles of light have flowed into his days, the clouds of light have drifted into his panorama as he stands on the high hills of wonder. There was a vast land beneath him as he looked down past the slopes of Haleakala. And the sky was a white light while he and his familiar hills, his familiar clouds were darkness. It was there he recognized that discovery is the finding of light. And once he beheld the [[strikethrough]] black [[/strikethrough]] red cliffs beyond Kipahulu on the southeast coast of Maui. The light above shone from the faces of the cliffs, from the black rocks, the sky, and the waters. And he learned, at last, that [[strikethrough]] light is [[/strikethrough]] from, line, design, organization, happiness, love and companionship are light; that he who [[strikethrough]] I [[/strikethrough]] has discovered light [[strikethrough]] is [[/strikethrough]] will know no loneliness thereafter, however dark the world may be.