Nothing Is Ever Behind Us.

…i Realized My Happiness Was Artificial. I Felt Happy Because I Saw The Others Were Happy And Because I Knew I Should Feel Happy, But I Wasn't Really Happy.

Of All The Islands He'd Visited, Two Stood Out. The Island Of The Past, He Said, Where The Only Time Was Past Time And The Inhabitants Were Bored And More Or Less Happy, But Where The Weight Of Illusion Was So Great That The Island Sank A Little Deeper Into The River Every Day. And The Island Of The Future, Where The Only Time Was The Future, And The Inhabitants Were Planners And Strivers, Such Strivers, Said Ulises, That They Were Likely To End Up Devouring One Another.

Then He Went Out Without Touching Anything And Put His Arm Around Ingeborg, And Like That, With Their Arms Around Each Other, They Returned To The Village While The Whole Past Of The Universe Fell On Their Heads.

Jesus Is The Masterpiece. The Thieves Are Minor Works. Why Are They There? Not To Frame The Crucifixion, As Some Innocent Souls Believe, But To Hide It.

Reading Is Like Thinking, Like Praying, Like Talking To A Friend, Like Expressing Your Ideas, Like Listening To Other People's Ideas, Like Listening To Music, Like Looking At The View, Like Taking A Walk On The Beach.