Do not believe that those who’ve died br lie down. They rise when we engage br their words which have become our guide, br reborn each day upon each page br we write. Their words are changed no less br than ours by these encounters, though br dead authors must feel some distress br to see their meanings melt like snow. br br The truth advances like an army, br the past defeated by the present, br but though its stale air is not balmy, br the past may yet be incandescent br when reinterpreted, and while br the snows of yesteryear are never br the same ones that today beguile, br they may, like Archimedes’ lever, br raise us to heights where we perceive br in later snows a beauty which br becomes a tapestry we weave, br ice-memories within each stitch.