A Journalist Also Needs To Be Disciplined,

The Leaves Had Fallen From The Trees And Lay Crisp And Crackling Beneath His Feet. Picking One Up He Marveled, Not For The First Time, At The Perfection Of Nature Where Leaves Were Most Beautiful At The Very End Of Their Lives.

To Be Silent. In Hopes Of Not Offending, In Hopes Of Being Accepted. But What Happened To People Who Never Spoke, Never Raised Their Voices? Kept Everything Inside? Gamache Knew What Happened. Everything They Swallowed, Every Word, Thought, Feeling Rattled Around Inside, Hollowing The Person Out. And Into That Chasm They Stuffed Their Words, Their Rage.

In Winter The Very Ground Seemed To Reach Up And Grab The Elderly, Yanking Them To Earth As Though Hungry For Them.

It's A Shame That Creativity And Sloth Look Exactly The Same.

I Had To Learn Compassion. Had To Learn What It Felt Like To Hate, And To Forgive And To Love And Be Loved. And To Lose People Close To Me. Had To Feel Deep Loneliness And Sorrow. And Then I Could Write.