An argument is like a country road, you never know where it is going to lead.
It is not merely enough to love literature if one wishes to spend one's life as a writer. It is a dangerous undertaking on the most primitive level. For, it seems to me, the act of writing with serious intent involves enormous personal risk. It entails the ongoing courage for self-discovery. It means one will walk forever on the tightrope, with each new step presenting the possiblity of learning a truth about oneself that is too terrible to bear.
ConvicÃ§Ãµes profundas sÃ³ as tÃªm as criaturas superficiais. Os que nÃ£o reparam para as coisas quase que as veem apenas para nÃ£o esbarrar com elas, esses sÃ£o sempre da mesma opiniÃ£o, sÃ£o os Ãntegros e os coerentes. A polÃtica e a religiÃ£o gastam dessa lenha, e Ã© por isso que ardem tÃ£o mal entre a Verdade e a Vida.
Your beloved and your friends were once strangers. Somehow at a particular time, they came from the distance toward your life. Their arrival seemed so accidental and contingent. Now your life is unimaginable without them. Similarly, your identity and vision are composed of a certain constellation of ideas and feelings that surfaced from the depths of the distance within you. To lose these now would be to lose yourself.
For there are two kinds of forgiveness in the world: the one you practice because everything really is all right, and what went before is mended. The other kind of forgiveness you practice because someone needs desperately to be forgiven, or because you need just as badly to forgive them, for a heart can grab hold of old wounds and go sour as milk over them.