I saw that happen as he grew and I along with him
but this war will make him no longer the boy he was
into a man he needn’t be.
Now, no longer the man he became.
None of it captured by his name
and span of years
on a stone
in the grass.
Lawrence Harris was a reader from an early age, even before he could read. Pictures told stories on which his imagination could build. He learned to write by writing the first two letters of his first and last name and scribbling the rest. He thought it looked convincing and felt it passed the test. Anyway, that’s what he made of his father’s signature.
Books were always the door to other times and worlds. He could detach himself from himself and be all there was. The past was always more enticing than the present. An early poem from grammar school called "Miniver Cheevy" spoke to him like nothing else. He was convinced he was born in the wrong time and would’ve given anything to live among the Celts. The passing of things evoked in him an early poignancy.
A large family made him competitive. Being in the middle made him a bridge-builder. School and ideas and books were always the joy. A degree in fine art released his eye, but reading and knowledge enveloped his mind. Further degrees broadened the rational, but sublimated the transcendent. Now the ineffable needs to be approached.