You see, I am not at all certain that I'd ever witnessed love.  Before you and him.  It's rare enough, you know.  Certainly I'd never felt it - or even mistaken it - for myself.  Even the thought of happiness terrifies me.  Fragile as a blown rose.  Why would anyone choose happiness over the long-enduring qualities of fear and pain?  I've often wondered if fear and pain would die, too, if I'd only let them.  If I would stop caring for them, fussing over them.

Now they want to crush the poor as they were once crushed. Memory does not always arrive whole from its journeys across the generations.

How much beauty do you think is enough for a life? And how is it that one measures beauty? And how must it be wrapped, and how shall it be doled out? The truth is that we've likely lived more than our share of beauty. More than most get to live, I mean. But our portion may not be used up. Let's risk it… It's time to stop being afraid... Stop practicing for death. The only way out of the maze is to take back our life.

I fear that you will believe as we all believe that we can keep breaking into our store of time without counting.  Our lives seem infinite until we reach in one day to find how little of them is left.

What woman worth her femininity has ever told all of her story?  As the gods do, we reveal ourselves - if we reveal ourselves at all - to whom we choose and in our own good time.

She's a woman. like a chameleon does, a woman quietly blends  into all the parts of her life. Sometimes you can hardly tell she's there, she's so quiet going on about her business. Feed the baby. Muck the stables. Make soup from stones. Make a sheet into a dress. She doesn't count on destiny for anything. She knows it's her own hands, her own arms, her own thighs and breasts that have to do the work.

Our babies cried when we left them and we cry when they leave us.  Echoes.  Proud almost to arrogance then, we pushed them about in their carriages.  Dutifully, wearily now, they push us about in our chairs.
Our children don't know us as we are now.  Less do they know us as we were.  Oh, how I wish they could have known us as we were.  Do rou think they would recognize their young selves in our young selves?  I wish they could have seen us in all our clumsiness and selfishness, which is so like their own clumsiness and selfishness right now.  There's another echo for you.
We believed the fairy tales we told our children and we loved them beyond reason even when we were green and bungling about it.  We were children loving our children.  And that's who we are still.

What do you suppose has changed in twenty-five years or so? I found the journal to be well written back then when someone or other left it behind. I thought it set things out rather nicely, addressing the events of the day, which are, of course, the same events of this day. Think of it. Even if its theater and its motives are being played out in a different geography, there's still war, isn't there? Still avidity and hate and violence and fear. Poverty and righteousness are still thriving. As are revolution and arrogance and lies. There is always perversion and torment, of course. What I particularly admired about this paper was the shrewd touch of pathos and poignancy strewn among the squalor and the filth. You know, The Good News... 

Should nostalgia move me, I can view the nightly news broadcasts from Rome or Milan. As I might an old movie. But unlike when I watch an old movie, the news broadcasts leave me empty, angry, and I must tell myself yet again that one need tune in only once in a lifetime to the nightly news to know the chronic story of man. To know how wrong the world is. How wronged it is.