I Find The Public Passion For Justice

Everything Human Is Alien To Me.

January. It Was All Things. And It Was One Thing, Like A Solid Door. Its Cold Sealed The City In A Gray Capsule. January Was Moments, And January Was A Year. January Rained The Moments Down, And Froze Them In Her Memory: [...]every Human Action Seemed To Yield A Magic. January Was A Two-faced Month, Jangling Like Jester's Bells, Crackling Like Snow Crust, Pure As Any Beginning, Grim As An Old Man, Mysteriously Familiar Yet Unknown, Like A Word One Can Almost But Not Quite Define.

The Conversation Seemed Just As Boring And Forgettable As Details Of American History Around 1805, For Example.

For Neither Life Nor Nature Cares If Justice Is Ever Done Or Not.

He Liked The Fact That Venice Had No Cars. It Made The City Human. The Streets Were Like Veins, He Thought, And The People Were The Blood, Circulating Everywhere.