A Lump of Clay I brought back a lump of clay that I dug from the banks of the Styx River with my hands for no particular reason— covered it with a wet rag and kept it in a bucket under the school where I was teaching. Some time later, on impulse, I took it out into the open— brought more water, a board to work on and started to knead and shape it— turning it, over and over, until my fingers and hands grew sore. All that effort of moulding brought nothing to show that had meaning.…
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