It Is An Art Form To Hate

My Wound Is Geography. It Is Also My Anchorage, My Port Of Call.

Know This. I Think You Could Be Special If You Only Thought There Was Anything Special About Yourself.

My Mother Raised Me To Be A Writer.

Books Are Living Things And Their Task Lies In Their Vows Of Silence. You Touch Them As They Quiver With A Divine Pleasure. You Read Them And They Fall Asleep To Happy Dreams For The Next 10 Years. If You Do Them The Favor Of Understanding Them, Of Taking In Their Portions Of Grief And Wisdom, Then They Settle Down In Contented Residence In Your Heart.

There Are No Verdicts To Childhood, Only Consequences, And The Bright Freight Of Memory.