Right Now, I Have No Idea What

For We Live With Those Retrievals From Childhood That Coalesce And Echo Throughout Our Lives, The Way Shattered Pieces Of Glass In A Kaleidoscope Reappear In New Forms And Are Songlike In Their Refrains And Rhymes, Making Up A Single Monologue. We Live Permanently In The Recurrence Of Our Own Stories, Whatever Story We Tell.

When You're Writing, It's As If You're Within A Kind Of Closed World.

A Love Story Is Not About Those Who Lost Their Heart But About Those Who Find That Sullen Inhabitant Who, When It Is Stumbled Upon, Means The Body Can Fool No One, Can Fool Nothing—not The Wisdom Of Sleep Or The Habit Of Social Graces. It Is A Consuming Of Oneself And The Past.

This Was The Time In Her Life That She Fell Upon Books As The Only Door Out Of Her Cell. They Became Half Her World.

In Sri Lanka A Well-told Lie Is Worth A Thousand Facts.