At End Of Road You are standing at the end of a road before a small brick building. Around you is a forest. A small stream flows out of the building and down a gully. >how did I get here? That doesn’t matter. You’re here now. >but this isn’t where I want to be I’m not concerned with what you want. Now pay attention: At End Of Road You are standing at the end of a road before a small brick building. Around you is a forest. A small stream flows out of the building and down a gully. >can I go home now?

—AdventureOne Pot Meal)

While Crowther and Woods are both alive (or were the last time I checked), I can’t help but think of T.S. Eliot writing in “Tradition and the Individual Talent”:

Some one said: “The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.” Precisely, and they are that which we know.