It Doesn't Ever Occur To You, As

But Do You Know This Idea Of The Imaginary Homeland? Once You Set Out From Shore On Your Little Boat, Once You Embark, You'll Never Truly Be At Home Again. What You've Left Behind Exists Only In Your Memory, And Your Ideal Place Becomes Some Strange Imaginary Concoction Of All You've Left Behind At Every Stop.

And Then, Into The Fantasy, As Into A Dream, Would Come The Thought: It's Not Like This Anymore; The World Has Changed. Just The Way, Even At That Time Fully Two Years After My Mother's Death, I'd Catch Myself Thinking About Her As Alive; And Would Suddenly Remember, An Admonitory Finger Of Grief Upon My Breast, That She Was Gone.

Anyway, These Books I Love, They’re All Books By Men—every Last One Of Them. Because If It’s Unseemly And Possibly Dangerous For A Man To Be Angry, It’s Totally Unacceptable For A Woman To Be Angry. I Wanted To Write A Voice That For Me, As A Reader, Had Been Missing From The Chorus: The Voice Of An Angry Woman.

Does Being Happy Simply Create More Time, In The Way That Being Sad, As We All Know, Slows Time And Thickens It, Like Cornstarch In A Sauce?).

Just Because Something Is Invisible Doesn't Mean It Isn't There. At Any Given Time, There Are A Host Of Invisibles Floating Among Us. There Are Clairvoyants To See Ghosts; But Who Sees The Invisible Emotions, The Unrecorded Events? Who Is That Sees Love, More Evanescent Than Any Ghost, Let Alone Can Catch It? Who Are You Tell Me That I Don't Know What Love Is?