Tell Me Then, Does Love Make One

I Need A Moment Of Time For Myself Every Day, Like A Child Playing With His Things. When I Travel, I Routinely Find A Quiet Place, Open My Diary And Write Something In It.

Many Great Authors Of The 19th Century Wrote Under Conditions Of Strict Censorship. The Great Thing About The Art Of Writing A Novel, Is That You Can Write About Anything. All You Have To Say Is That It's Fiction.

When You Look Into The Faces Of These Quiet Creatures Who Don't Know How To Tell Stories--who Are Mute, Who Can't Make Themselves Heard, Who Fade Into The Woodwork, Who Only Think Of The Perfect Answer After The Fact, After They're Back At Home, Who Can Never Think Of A Story That Anyone Else Will Find Interesting--is There Not More Depth And More Meaning In Them? You Can See Every Letter Of Every Untold Story Swimming On Their Faces, And All The Signs Of Silence, Dejection, And Even Defeat. You Can Even Imagine Your Own Face In Those Faces, Can't You?

I Realized That The Longing For Art, Like The Longing For Love, Is A Malady That Blinds Us, And Makes Us Forget The Things We Already Know, Obscuring Reality.

Sometimes I Would See Them Not As Mementos Of The Blissful Hours But As The Tangible Precious Debris Of The Storm Raging In My Soul.