Light troubles speak; the weighty are struck dumb.
Maybe being oneself is always an acquired taste.
The cold was our pride, the snow was our beauty. It fell and fell, lacing day and night together in a milky haze, making everything quieter as it fell, so that winter seemed to partake of religion in a way no other season did, hushed, solemn.
People come and go in life, but they never leave your dreams. Once they're in your subconscious, they are immortal.
Memoirists, unlike fiction writers, do not really want to 'tell a story. ' They want to tell it all - the all of personal experience, of consciousness itself. That includes a story, but also the whole expanding universe of sensation and thought. . . Memoirists wish to tell their mind. Not their story.
I don't write about what I know: I write in order to find out what I know.
Maybe being oneself is an acquired taste. For a writer it's a big deal to bow--or kneel or get knocked down--to the fact that you are going to write your own books and not somebody else's. Not even those books of the somebody else you thought it was your express business to spruce yourself up to be.
I guess we guess our way through life. How many times do we really know for sure?
I used my captors names every chance I had. It was intentional, a way of reminding them that I saw them, of pegging them, of making them see me in return.
A Christian life based on feeling is headed for a gigantic collapse.
Wherever you have a plot of land, however small, plant a garden. Staying close to the soil is good for the soul.