Death, In The Eastern Tradition, Was Only

Probably All Of Us, Writers And Readers Alike, Set Out Into Exile, Or At Least Into A Certain Kind Of Exile, When We Leave Childhood Behind...the Immigrant, The Nomad, The Traveler, The Sleepwalker All Exist, But Not The Exile, Since Every Writer Becomes An Exile Simply By Venturing Into Literature, And Every Reader Becomes An Exile Simply By Opening A Book.

They Could Read Him, They Could Study Him, They Could Pick Him Apart, But They Couldn't Laugh Or Be Sad With Him.

For A Moment The Two Of Them Looked At Each Other, Wordless, As If They Were Asleep And Their Dreams Had Converged On Common Ground, A Place Where Sound Was Alien.

We Never Stop Reading, Although Every Book Comes To An End, Just As We Never Stop Living, Although Death Is Certain.

Only In Chaos Are We Conceivable.