My soul was a burden, bruised and bleeding. It was tired of the man who carried it, but I found no place to set it down to rest. Neither the charm of the countryside nor the sweet scents of a garden could soothe it. It found no peace in song or laugher, none in the company of friends at table or in the pleasures of love, none even in books or poetry... Where could my heart find refuge from itself? Where could I go, yet leave myself behind?
Wally LambAbout author
- Author's profession: Author
- Nationality: american
- Born: October 17, 1950
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Jodi Picoult
We join spokes together in a wheel, but it is the center hole that makes the wagon move. We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness insidethat holds whatever we want. We hammer wood for a house, but it is the inner spacethat makes it livable. We work with being, but non-being is what we use.
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