It was the Magic Hour, the moment in time when every leaf and blade of grass seemed to separate, when sunlight, burnished by the rain and softened by the coming night, gave the world an impossibly beautiful glow.
When the magic hour arrives, my thoughts center on light rather than on the landscape. I search for perfect light, then hunt for something earthbound to match with it.
Oh, magic hour, when a child first knows she can read printed words.
I believe that my whole creative life stemmed from this magic hour under the stars on that hilltop.
The hours between eight in the evening and one or two in the morning have always been my magic hours. Against the blue candlewick bedspread the white pages of my open book, illuminated by a circle of lamplight, were the gateway to another world.
I wouldn't do the 'Magic Hour' again, but I would do TV again. The 'Magic Hour' is not me. Anything I would do, I would have to be me. That is how it would work.
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