Tomb of Sand

Once you’ve got women and a border, a story can write itself. Even women on their own are enough. Women are stories in themselves, full of stirrings and whisperings that float on the wind, that bend with each blade of grass.

don’t you think youth comes at the wrong time? When we haven’t lived at all. It comes and then it’s gone, and we don’t even notice.

Man worships the idols he himself creates. But not those that God has made.

That which is torn develops an increased capacity for insight and forbearance. A capacity to experience sensations that escape the notice of others.

Daughter. You love her. You fear her. Now you see her. Now you don't. All women, don't forget, are daughters.

When you’re quiet, you’re polite; but when I’m quiet, I’m wily. If you did it, it’s good etiquette; if I do, it’s fawning flattery. If you say it, it’s candid; if I do, it’s just rude. If I ask, it’s obscene curiosity; when you do, it’s sympathy. If I do it, it’s for my own convenience; if you do it, you’re most beneficent. If I do it, I’m being stingy; if you do it, you’re being thrifty. If I’m quiet, I’m acting proud; if you’re quiet, you feel bashful. I’m extremely secretive, but you’re just reserved. And my fashions are faux, whereas yours are cutting edge. And if I lose something, what’s the big deal, but if you do, you’ve been robbed, woe is me!

You could say, Oh, what a horrible time this is! and then it will go ahead and make things even more horrible. And no one will say, but these are good days, acche din! Except for the government, that is.

but the sum total of the thing is this: life is life and death is death, and what is dead is dead, and gone is gone, and busy is busy. The gist being that if great beings and treasures and memories depart, never to return, what happens to ordinary everyday items? Nothing.

So nature became habit. Habit is custom. Thus ended the speech. Only the first time is there a spontaneous reaction. After that, it’s all habit. Habit is just another word for repetition. Repetition becomes empty and meaningless, but it is also routine. If you hear a sound, then what do you do? You duck in fear. The Sparrow of the Red Forest still continues this custom. For this is now her culture. These are the rules for her behaviour.

Words. But what are words, really, hmmm? They're mere sounds with meanings dangling from them. That have no logic. They find their own way. Arising from the quarrel between a sinking body and a drowning mind, they grab hold of antonyms. The seed planted was a date tree; what blossomed was a hibiscus. They wrestle with themselves---wrapped up in their own game.