Every Book In The World Is Out

…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.

Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

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

For A Moment The Two Of Them Looked At Each Other, Wordless, As If They Were Asleep And Their Dreams Had Converged On Common Ground, A Place Where Sound Was Alien.

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.