Under The Imaginary Table That

As We Manipulate Everyday Words, We Forget That They Are Fragments Of Ancient And Eternal Stories, That We Are Building Our Houses With Broken Pieces Of Sculptures And Ruined Statues Of Gods As The Barbarians Did.

...."the Sound Of A Barrel Organ Rising From The Deepest Golden Vein Of The Day; Two Or Three Bars Of A Chorus, Played On A Distant Piano Over And Over Again, Melting In The Sun On The White Pavement, Lost In The Fire Of High Noon.

Even In The Depths Of Sleep, In Which He Had To Satisfy His Need For Protection And Love By Curling Himself Up Into A Trembling Ball, He Could Not Rid Himself Of The Feeling Of Loneliness And Homelessness.

How Can One Not Succumb And Allow One's Courage To Fail When Everything Is Shut Tight, When All Meaningful Things Are Walled Up, And When You Constantly Knock Against Bricks, As Against The Walls Of A Prison?

In Our Town There Was A Gestapo Officer Who Loved To Play Chess. After The Occupation Began, He Found Out That My Father Was The Chess Master Of The Region, And So He Had Him To His House Every Night.