Memory Is The Sense Of Loss, And

I Am Grateful For All Those Dark Years, Even Though In Retrospect They Seem Like A Long, Bitter Prayer That Was Answered Finally.

I Want To Feel That Art Is An Utterance Made In Good Faith By One Human Being To Another.

Light Is Constant, We Just Turn Over In It.

There Is So Little To Remember Of Anyone - An Anecdote, A Conversation At A Table. But Every Memory Is Turned Over And Over Again, Every Word, However Chance, Written In The Heart In The Hope That Memory Will Fulfill Itself, And Become Flesh, And That The Wanderers Will Find A Way Home, And The Perished, Whose Lack We Always Feel, Will Step Through The Door Finally And Stroke Our Hair With Dreaming Habitual Fondness Not Having Meant To Keep Us Waiting Long.

I Would Advise You Against Defensiveness On Priciple. It Precludes The Best Eventualities Along With The Worst. At The Most Basic Level It Expresses A Lack Of Faith.