A couple of months after my heart attack, fifty-seven years after I'd given it up, I started to write again.  I did it for myself alone, not for anyone else, and that was the difference.  It didn't matter if I found the words, and more than that, I knew it would be impossible to find the right ones.  And because I accepted that what I'd once believed was possible was in fact impossible, and because I knew I would never show a word of it to anyone, I wrote a sentence:

Once upon a time there was a boy.

It remained there, staring up from the otherwise blank page for days.  The next week I added another.  Soon there was a whole page.  It made me happy, like talking alound to myself, which I sometimes do.

The History of Love, Nicole Krauss

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