I'm slowly returning to my accustomed reading pace, after about 3 months of simply inching through novels. The book I just finished, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera, reminds me why this is such an important part of my life. The beauty of words is my breath more often that I can to admit.
The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful...I have said before that metaphors are dangerous. Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.
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