When Another Writer In Another House Is

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?

If We Give What We Treasure Most To A Being We Love With All Our Hearts, If We Can Do That Without Expecting Anything In Return, Then The World Becomes A Beautiful Place.

As Much As I Live I Shall Not Imitate Them Or Hate Myself For Being Different To Them

What Was The Difference Between Love And The Agony Of Waiting? Like Love, The Agony Of Waiting Began In The Muscles And Somewhere Around The Upper Belly But Soon Spread Out To The Chest, The Thighs, And The Forehead, To Invade The Entire Body With Numbing Force.

The Entire World Was Like A Palace With Countless Rooms Whose Doors Opened Into One Another. We Were Able To Pass From One Room To The Next Only By Exercising Our Memories And Imaginations, But Most Of Us, In Our Laziness, Rarely Exercised These Capacities, And Forever Remained In The Same Room.