I believe we owe it to each other to tell stories.
It’s as close to a credo as I have or will, I suspect, ever get.
I’ll tell the wind my name, and no one else.
True madness takes or leaves us in the wood
halfway through all our lives. My skin will be
my face now.
I’ll leave the way of words to walk the wood
I’ll be the forest man, and greet the sun,
And feel the silence blossom on my tongue
I think the world will end in black-and-white, like an old movie.
Maybe as long as we have colors we can keep going.
Where does contagion end and art begin?
“You cannot hear a poem without it changing you,”
she told me.
“They heard it, and it colonized them.”
It’s the strangest thing about poetry – you can tell it’s poetry,
even if you don’t speak the language.
Telling stories to my children that I was, in my turn, told by my parents and grandparents makes me feel part of something special and odd, part of the continuous stream of life itself.
– quotes from “Fragile Things” by Neil Gaiman