Her love of words is a private passion – one she would rather not share. In the house of her childhood though everything had to be shared. If she tried to hold anything back, they would search and find the hidden places. Her written words, discovered, read were just the source of more pain and punishment. This was why she loved poetry. They did not always understand it so they left it alone.
I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer — and what trees and seasons smelled like — how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.
Most places we leave in childhood grow less, not more, fancy.
The problem with a man is, he is no more a child.
Small boys often produce their own plays; but usually the parts are not written out. They hardly need to be, for the main line of each character is always “Stick ’em up!” In these plays the curtain is always rung down on a set of corpses, for small boys are by nature through and uncompromising.
Sitting in his old schoolroom on the sofa with little cushions on the arms and looking into Natasha’s wildly eager eyes, Rostov was carried back into that world of home and childhood which had no meaning for anyone else, but gave him some of the greatest pleasure in his life.
You see, here’s my theory: Kids chase the love that eludes them, and for me, that was my father’s love. He kept it tucked away, like papers in a briefcase. And I kept trying to get in there.
A good vocabulary is not acquired by reading books written according to some notion of the vocabulary of one’s age group. It comes from reading books above one.
Trauma does not have to occur by abuse alone…
Three children lay on the rocks at the water’s edge.
A dark-haired girl, two boys, slightly older.
This image is caught forever in my memory, like some fragile creature preserved in amber.