It was November—the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.

Love is a decision it can't be forced
Love heals as much as it damages 
Love is what makes you happy 
The sadness in it is what we call humanity 
Love elate as much as love deflates
It all depends on the lover and the loved
Love to unlove 
Unlove to love 
Cuz after all it might just be a phase

I&#39;ve been such an outsider my whole life.

What was a prisoner of war anyway? Less than a man, just material to be used to make the railway, like the teak sleepers and steel rails and dog spikes.

Written By Richard Flanagan

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