The Wild Iris

"You were always very young children, always waiting for a story. And I’d been through it all too many times; I was tired of telling stories. So I gave you the pencil and paper. I gave you pens made of reeds I had gathered myself, afternoons in the dense meadows. I told you, write your own story. After all those years of listening I thought you’d know what a story was. All you could do was weep. You wanted everything told to you and nothing thought through yourselves. ... leia mais