My birthplace was California, but I couldn't forget Armenia, so what is one's country? Is it land of the earth, in a specific place? Rivers there? Lakes? The sky there? The way the moon comes up there? And the sun? Is one's country the trees, the vineyards, the grass, the birds, the rocks, the hills and summer and winter? Is it the animal rhythm of the living there? The huts and houses, the streets of cities, the tables and chairs, and the drinking of tea and talking? Is it the peach ripening in summer heat on the bough? Is it the dead in the earth there?

All of the sudden," he said, "I feel different-- not like I ever felt before. Even when Papa died I didn't feel this way. In two days everything is changed. I'm lonely and I don't now what I'm lonely for

I used to throw things out, saying, 'This isn't great.' It didn't occur to me that it didn't have to be great.

Seek goodness everywhere, and when it is found, bring it out of its hiding place and let it be free and unashamed.

Human memory works its own wheel, and stops where it will, entirely without reference to the last stop, and with no connection with the next.

In the end, today is forever, yesterday is still today, and tomorrow is already today.

What can I tell you, except the stupid little I know?