D.E. Sievers

“Sincerity charged her every word like a bombshell that she launched in numbers amounting to a blitzkrieg he was powerless to withstand. She blew him all to pieces.”

“They remained in bed through the evening and it was as good as it had ever been if not better. Uninhibited sounds of pleasure erupted time and again, shattering the museumlike stillness like fine holiday china removed from a dustblown cupboard and smashed one plate at a time. The articulation of unfeigned desire issued from each of them, resounding through the house, and each of them heard it. It was louder than the silence of neglect that had clamored so loudly in the past, when the disaffection borne of life’s distractions would have had them believe there could be something more important than what they’d found in each other. But now, all they’d been through together had honed their ability to see and hear and feel what they’d had all along, and nearly lost. They knew the world around them would jabber on, deafeningly at times, but they would face it together, knowing what they knew, and shout it down. Between the two of them they had more than enough sound and color and light to fill all the time and space and need they could ever expect to possess. The key to their happiness consisted only in knowing it.”

“When he thought of all he’d seen, done and experienced in his life, all he’d gained, lost, desired and agonized over, he found it inconceivable that everyone else could be subject, more or less, to the same unavoidable conditions and alternatives.”

“Half full or half empty, just be thankful if your glass has anything in it at all.”

“We praise the virtues of beauty and truth, when in fact we esteem them only to the extent they are convenient and beneficial to us. When they are not, we quickly dismiss them as ugly and false.”

“Excerpt from "The Trees in Winter"        I’m old now and tired. Dried up and brittle. My hands are like clumsy crooked twigs hanging from my stick figure wrists. My body doesn’t work like it used to, and what goes on in my mind feels about as useful as a cheap trick performed day after day by a third rate magician, an act so worn out that not even I can pretend to be entertained by it anymore. There’s nothing much left to say and even less to do. The repetition is uninspiring, like playing the same set of the same songs day after day. The jazz has gone out of my life, and the dull plodding rhythm I’m left with will never bring it back. There’s a persistent chill in the house that follows me around. Maybe it’s not in the house but in me. Am I becoming morbid? Am I becoming anything?”