July 8th, 2003 It is not a story of characters where it is clear immediately who is in the wrong, with dark evil intentions and good intentions. No. It is the story of helplessness in the face of one’s own...
They won’t believe it, No one will believe it. How you held my body, my heart, and my happiness, Firmly to the ground, And flew them in the air, With one and same smile, And with one and the same turn of your...
And after love,
I become half woman, half you.
He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces of friends and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers...
Then we drenched in rain. Then I said good bye. Then I drenched even more. Walking in Beijing never felt more earthy.
Thursday, April 30, 2015, 6:37pm What makes it possible that Dickens can write about city’s vagabond children and it infuses us with emotion, that Trollope can write about societies in church, novelizing them, and...
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