A mass of soapsuds and whitewash, said a critic of a Turner painting of a storm at sea.
I wonder what they think the sea’s like, said Turner.
Like the meeting of the seagulls and the waves we meet and come near. The seagulls fly off, the waves roll away and we depart.
My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.
Dear friend, I feel the silence of your great thoughts of may a deepening eventide on this beach when I listen to these waves.