I Believe That It Isn't

When You Look Into The Faces Of These Quiet Creatures Who Don't Know How To Tell Stories--who Are Mute, Who Can't Make Themselves Heard, Who Fade Into The Woodwork, Who Only Think Of The Perfect Answer After The Fact, After They're Back At Home, Who Can Never Think Of A Story That Anyone Else Will Find Interesting--is There Not More Depth And More Meaning In Them? You Can See Every Letter Of Every Untold Story Swimming On Their Faces, And All The Signs Of Silence, Dejection, And Even Defeat. You Can Even Imagine Your Own Face In Those Faces, Can't You?

If We Give What We Treasure Most To A Being We Love With All Our Hearts, If We Can Do That Without Expecting Anything In Return, Then The World Becomes A Beautiful Place.

My Hero Wants To Belong Too, But He Doesn't Want To Give Up All The Things He Came To Value In The West.

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.

My Diary Has Its Own Kind Of Magic. It Gives Me The Feeling Of Having Accomplished Something. On Days When I Don't Have Time For This, I Feel Tortured.