Literature, it seems to me, is wisdom.

The function of freedom is to free someone else.

Anger is better. There is a sense of being in anger. A reality and presence. An awareness of worth. It is a lovely surging.

In a way, her strangeness, her naiveté, her craving for the other half of her equation was the consequence of an idle imagination. Had she paints, or clay, or knew the discipline of the dance, or strings, had she anything to engage her tremendous curiosity and her gift for metaphor, she might have exchanged the restlessness and preoccupation with whim for an activity that provided her with all she yearned for. And like an artist with no art form, she became dangerous.

And wouldn't you know he'd be a singing man.

But her brain was not interested in the future. Loaded with the past and hungry for more, it left her no room to imagine, let alone plan for, the next day.

Say make me, remake me. You are free to do it and I am free to let you because look, look. Look where your hands are. Now.