There is a feeling, a sort of half-grasped significance — the sense that an object, a moment, a place, is more valuable than one can understand. For me it shows itself in an old Presbyterian church in St. Paul, in the banker’s lamp on my desk, in the beautiful people I move among each day. Unable to grasp the significance of what lies before me, I have begun to write it down. This is the journal of half-grasped significance.