A Man With A Soul

The Light Of Memory, Or Rather The Light That Memory Lends To Things, Is The Palest Light Of All. I Am Not Quite Sure Whether I Am Dreaming Or Remembering, Whether I Have Lived My Life Or Dreamed It. Just As Dreams Do, Memory Makes Me Profoundly Aware Of The Unreality, The Evanescence Of The World, A Fleeting Image In The Moving Water.

A Writer Never Has A Vacation. For A Writer, Life Consists Of Either Writing Or Thinking About Writing.

The Brightest Light, The Light Of Italy, The Purest Sky Of Scandinavia In The Month Of June Is Only A Half-light When One Compares It To The Light Of Childhood. Even The Nights Were Blue.

Oh Words, What Crimes Are Committed In Your Name? ~jack Or The Submission

A Man With A Soul Is Not Like Every Other Man.