Why Does What Was Beautiful Shatter In

I Took All The Blame. I Admitted Mistakes I Hadn't Made, Intentions I'd Never Had. Whenever She Turned Cold And Hard, I Begged Her To Be Good To Me Again, To Forgive Me And Love Me. Sometimes I Had The Feeling That She Hurt Herself When She Turned Cold And Rigid. As If What She Was Yearning For Was The Warmth Of My Apologies, Protestations, And Entreaties. Sometimes I Thought She Just Bullied Me. But Either Way, I Had No Choice.

As A Citizen And Someone Who Was A Judge On The Constitutional Law Court For 18 Years, I Feel Whenever I Can Raise My Voice With The Hope Of Being Heard I Need To Do It, But I Wouldn't Assign A Special Wisdom And Responsibility To Writers.

Or Is There No Such Thing As 'too Late'? Is There Only 'late' And Is 'late' Always Better Than 'never'? I Don't Know.

The Tectonic Layers Of Our Lives Rest So Tightly One On Top Of The Other That We Always Come Up Against Earlier Events In Later Ones, Not As Matter That Has Been Fully Formed And Pushed Aside, But Absolutely Present And Alive. I Understand This. Nonetheless, I Sometimes Find It Hard To Bear.

What Should Our Second Generation Have Done, What Should It Do With The Knowledge Of The Horrors Of The Extermination Of The Jews? We Should Not Believe We Can Comprehend The Incomprehensible, We May Not Compare The Incomparable, We May Not Inquire Because To Inquire Is To Make The Horrors An Object Of Discussion, Even If The Horrors Themselves Are Not Questioned, Instead Of Accepting Them As Something In The Face Of Which We Can Only Fall Silent In Revulsion, Shame And Guilt. Should We Only Fall Silent In Revulsion, Shame And Guilt? To What Purpose?