Literature Is Not Made Of Ideas And

… That Sour Blend Of Loneliness And Lust For Recognition, Shyness And Extravagance, Deep Insecurity And Self-intoxicated Egomania, That Drives Poets And Writers Out Of Their Rooms To Seek Each Other Out, To Rub Shoulders With One Another, Bully, Joke, Condescend, Feel Each Other, Lay A Hand On A Shoulder Or An Arm Round A Waist, To Chat And Argue With Little Nudges, To Spy A Little, Sniff Out What Is Cooking In Other Pots, Flatter, Disagree, Collude, Be Right, Take Offence, Apologise, Make Amends, Avoid Each Other, And Seek Each Other’s Company Again.

My Dream For Israel Is Peace, External And Internal Peace.

A Long War Is Degenerating - It Ruins The Mind And The Soul And Psyche Of Individuals And Nations.

My Dream For Israel Is Peace, External And Internal Peace. I Want Israel To Live In Peace With Its Neighbors And In Peace With Itself.

Israel Is A Fulfilled Dream. Nothing That Exists Here Existed Here A Hundred Years Ago. "the State Of The Jews" Was Not A Title Of A Country. It Was A Title Of A Futuristic Novel. A Little More Than A Hundred Years Ago, "tel Aviv" Was Not A City. It Was A Title Of Another Novel Written By The Same Author. The "return To Zion" Was A Name Of Another Novel. There Was A Bookshelf. There Was No State. There Was No Nation. All You Can See, If You Look Through The Window - Everything You See Is A Fulfillment Of Dreams, Different Dreams.