没了灵魂的人
暴雨下的野草
It was as much of a gift to receive as it was to give,requiring as it did both
courage and humility.
You could be ordinary and attermpt something extraordinary.
If we can't accept what we don't know, there really is no hope.
If we don't go mad once in a while, there's no hope.
But maybe it's what the world needs. a little less sense,and a little more faith.
Beginnings could happen more than once, or in different ways.
Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the teuth that everyone was the same, and also unque；and that this was the diemma of being human .
The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other; and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living it had been doing for a long time. 
People were buying milk, or filling their cars with petrol, or even posting letters. And what no one else know was the appalling weight of the thing they were carying inside.
The superhuman effort it took sometimes to be nomal, and a part of things that appeared both easy and every day. The loneliness of that .
It was not a life, if lived without love.
I miss her all the time . I know in my head that she has gone,but I still keep looking . The only difference is that I am getting used to the pain. It's like discovering a great hole in the ground. To begin with, you forget it's there and keep falling in . After a while, it's still there, but you learn to walk round it .
Honour the true meaning of words, indtead of using them as ammunition.
You'd think walking should be the simplest thing, just a questing of putting one foot in front of the other . But it never ceases to amaze me how difficult the things that are supposed to be instinctive really are. Eating, that's another one . Some people have real difficulties with that. Talking too. Even loving. They can all be difficult.
She had loved a few times , and she had lost, and that was all as it should be. She had touched life, played with it a littke, but finally we must close the door , and leave it behind .