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Most of us are poets, she said. It's just a question of how it comes out.

I could see myself in the mirror in the wardrobe door. I looked terribly sad, although I didn't feel it. I wasn't feeling very much of anything. Most of us are poets? What does that say about everyone else

No one of us sees ourselves very clearly. We are too close to our bodies, fitting almost perfectly inside of them.

So much of the way a life goes is predicated on the way we use these two simple words: yes and no. There was no rehearsal and how could Sufien know that saying yes was the wrong choice.

He was so young, he didn't realize that paradise is simply being seventeen, when everything is still possible, and when the naive soul finds itself in the body of a man, bound for the big and beautiful world back there on the Orient Express, where everyone was speaking French.

Didn't they realize that prosperous times are treacherous in that they obscure the coming misfortune, Sufien protested. The worst of times, those times when true survival is at stake, are allowed to just be beautiful, because there is no other option: rejoice in the beauty that remains or succumb to death.

Though he couldn't name it, he could feel it, that losing home is the closest approximation we have for losing our bodies. To be a refugee is to be nearly apparitional.

Wild boars are cunning. So are men. Hunting techniques can be applied equally to rational and irrational creatures because, in the end, everyone is both hunter and prey, whatever their powers of reason. It's hard to hunt boars or men without them knowing it. They know when they're being chased; they know how to be quick and violent enough to survive.

Have you seen that those who leave because they simply yearn to leave are certain as well? The sureness of a compass, whose north is nothing but its distance from wherever it began, that's how it is, and was. And will be. And so forth every time since then.

Have you seen that those who leave because they simply yearn to leave are certain as well? The sureness of a compass, whose north is nothing but its distance from wherever it began, that's how it is, and was. And will be. And so forth every time since then.

You sat me down in your lap, you dried my tears, you showed me a walnut, and you promised a tree to my bewildered eyes. You kept your promise.

"Times are always strange. Art is always out of place. Always unnecessary when it's made. And later, when you look back, it's the only thing that mattered."