![]() ![]() One day I hope to fasten them end to end in a half-mile streamer, to float in the wind like a banner raised to the glory of friendship. A couple of lines or eight pages, a Middle Eastern stamp or a suburban postmark. Capturing the moment, these small slices of life, these small gusts of happiness, move me more deeply than all the rest. Other letters simply relate the small events that punctuate the passage of time: roses picked at dusk, the laziness of a rainy Sunday, a child crying himself to sleep. ![]() Had I been blind and deaf, or does it take the harsh light of disaster to show a person's true nature? Their small talk has masked hidden depths. And by a curious reversal, the people who focus most closely on these fundamental questions tend to be people I had known only superficially. Some of them are serious in tone, discussing the meaning of life, invoking the supremacy of the soul, the mystery of every existence. They are opened for me, unfolded, and spread out before my eyes in a daily ritual that gives the arrival of the mail the character of a hushed and holy ceremony. ![]()
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