The Notion Of A Universality Of Human

I Will Tell You What Jeanne Was Like. She Was Like A Piano In A Country Where Everyone Has Had Their Hands Cut Off.

And, Indeed, Is There Not Something Holy About A Great Kitchen?... The Scoured Gleam Of Row Upon Row Of Metal Vessels Dangling From Hooks Or Reposing On Their Shelves Till Needed With The Air Of So Many Chalices Waiting For The Celebration Of The Sacrament Of Food. And The Range Like An Altar, Yes, Before Which My Mother Bowed In Perpetual Homage, A Fringe Of Sweat Upon Her Upper Lip And The Fire Glowing In Her Cheeks.

For Hours, For Days, For Years, She Had Wandered Endlessly Within Herself But Never Met Anybody, Nobody.

I Had The Brief Notion That His Heart, Pressed Flat As A Flower, Crimson And Thin As Tissue Paper, Lay In This File. It Was A Very Thin One.

There Is A Striking Resemblance Between The Act Of Love And The Ministrations Of A Torturer.