Reading Is Pleasure And Happiness To Be

For Her, Reading Was Directly Linked To Pleasure, Not To Knowledge Or Enigmas Or Constructions Or Verbal Labyrinths.

The World Is Alive And No Living Thing Has Any Remedy. That Is Our Fortune.

Of What Is Lost, Irretrievably Lost, All I Wish To Recover Is The Daily Availability Of My Writing, Lines Capable Of Grasping Me By The Hair And Lifting Me Up When I'm At The End Of My Strength. (significant, Said The Foreigner.) Odes To The Human And The Divine. Let My Writing Be Like The Verses Of By Leopardi That Daniel Biga Recited On A Nordic Bridge To Gird Himself With Courage.

Literature Is A Vast Forest And The Masterpieces Are The Lakes, The Towering Trees Or Strange Trees, The Lovely, Eloquent Flowers, The Hidden Caves, But A Forest Is Also Made Up Of Ordinary Trees, Patches Of Grass, Puddles, Clinging Vines, Mushrooms, And Little Wildflowers.

…i Realized My Happiness Was Artificial. I Felt Happy Because I Saw The Others Were Happy And Because I Knew I Should Feel Happy, But I Wasn't Really Happy.