...the Endless Repetition Of An Ordinary Miracle.

Love Is A Sacred Silence.

The Sight Of Snow Made Her Think How Beautiful And Short Life Is And How, In Spite Of All Their Enmities, People Have So Very Much In Common; Measured Against Eternity And The Greatness Of Creation, The World In Which They Lived Was Narrow. That's Why Snow Drew People Together. It Was As If Snow Cast A Veil Over Hatreds, Greed, And Wrath And Made Everyone Feel Close To One Another. -- Snow Pg 119

How Much Can We Ever Know About The Love And Pain In Another Heart? How Much Can We Hope To Understand Those Who Have Suffered Deeper Anguish, Greater Deprivation, And More Crushing Disappointments Than We Ourselves Have Known?

I'm A Relatively Disciplined Writer Who Composes The Whole Book Before Beginning To Execute And Write It. Of Course, You Can't Hold - You Cannot Imagine A Whole Novel Before You Write It; There Are Limits To Human Memory And Imagination. Lots Of Things Come To Your Mind As You Write A Book, But Again, I Make A Plan, Chapter, Know The Plot.

I Think A Lot About The Poems I Wasn't Able To Write...i Masturbrated...solitude Is Essentially A Matter Of Pride; You Bury Yourself In Your Own Scent. The Issue Is The Same For All Real Poets. If You've Been Happy For Too Long, You Become Banal. By The Same Token, If You've Been Unhappy For A Long Time, You Lose Your Poetic Power...happiness And Poverty Can Only Coexist For The Briefest Time. Afterword Either Happiness Coarsens The Poet Or The Poem Is So True It Destroys His Happiness.