You were just a boy on a bed in a room, like a kaleidoscope is a tube full of bits of broken glass. But the way I saw you was pieces refracting the light, shifting into an infinite universe of flowers and rainbows and insects and planets, magical dividing cells, pictures no one else knew ...

"Yes you can" said mom.

When time goes haphazard in life, there always comes a gentle push from maa.

Simply because we were licked a hundred years before we started is no reason for us not to try to win,

Isn't that exactly the definition of biography? An artificial logic imposed on an 'incoherent succession of images'?

Written By Milan Kundera

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