For me to see is to read. It has always been that way.
And will you tell me the truth? I will tell you the truth.
Again she missed God. She had shared everything with him. From childhood she had gone to him with every question, doubt, delight, and triumph. He had accompanied every advance in her thinking; in acti...
Pasaulē ir pārāk daudz grāmatu, lai tās izlasītu vienas dzīves laikā; kaut kur ir jānovelk svītra.
We all have our sorrows, and although the exact delineaments, weight and dimensions of grief are different for everyone, the color of grief is common to us all. I know, he said, because he was human,...
There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner.
La gente desaparece cuando muere. La voz, la risa, el calor de su aliento, la carne y finalmente los huesos. Todo recuerdo vivo de ella termina. Es algo terrible y natural al mismo tiempo. Sin embargo...
Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope...
Death might be a necessity in farming, but suffering? Never.
A child is not an empty vessel.... to be formed in whatever way the parent thinks fit. They are born with their own hearts and they cannot be made otherwise, no matter what love a man lavishes on them...