Because There Were All Kinds Of Hell

In Daily Life Language Is Important, If Not In Itself, Then As A Symptom.

If You Know Anything About Islamic Civilization, Or About The Contemporary Middle East, About The Sociology And The Anthropology Of The People Who Live There, And Their Recent History, And Their Religion, And Their Motivation And Everything, Then You Realize That Changing Iraq Into A Democracy Is Not Going To Happen. It's Just Not Going To Happen.

Perhaps Passing Through The Gates Of Death Is Like Passing Quietly Through The Gate In A Pasture Fence. On The Other Side, You Keep Walking, Without The Need To Look Back. No Shock, No Drama, Just The Lifting Of A Plank Or Two In A Simple Wooden Gate In A Clearing. Neither Pain, Nor Floods Of Light, Nor Great Voices, But Just The Silent Crossing Of A Meadow.

She Knew Words No One Had Ever Heard Of, And She Used Words Every Day That Had Been Mainly Dead Or Sleeping For Hundreds Of Years.

When You Die, You Know, You Hear The Insistent Pounding That Defines All Things, Whether Of Matter Or Energy, Since There Is Nothing In The Universe, Really, But Proportion.