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Poets don’t even know when they’re lying. They’re just trying to remember their dreams.
In America they distrust unhappy people. But I don’t want pity. I just wonder if they’ve had that feeling too. The one where you realize it’s your fault that something beautiful is dead. And you know you weren’t worth the trouble.
The people didn’t want us there, so if you said, “Boena sera,” they’d say, “Good evening,” back because they didn’t want us to stay. They didn’t even want us to learn Italian.
But if you think people are stupid and mazloom and all you ever do is take from them, then they eventually learn how to survive you.
They’ll create a new world, with its own language, and they’ll hide everything there—all the favorite jokes they won’t say around you, all the best books, the spot on the wall that looks like a keyhole, being safe and free and comfortable—all those things, and you won’t even know they exist.
Hiding so sneaky that it’s hidden below tears that you think are trying to hide themselves—but they’re actually decoy tears. Not real ones.
The better question is, Can God create a law so big that He himself has to obey it? Is there an idea so big that God doesn’t remember anything before it? That answer is love. Love is the object of unusual size.
The cat and dog make some kind of boundary and stick to their territory, so they can pretend they won a kingdom the size of half a town, when really they lost a limb the size of the other half.
Bones break over and over and you can get used to it. Like Mithridates with his poison, you could even break your bones on purpose, put your arm in a drawer and slam it. Little by little, they still fuse back stronger. Eventually, you might even become unbreakable. Just knowing they could never hurt you—that would scare people. Somewhere in their animal brains they know you’ve become a different kind of creature.
because we didn’t have any money and it was worse to Jesus if we were on government welfare.
