LOVE OF A LIAR
'She knew the art of painting rainbows with her words. And so I fell in love with her eloquence; each word she said rang true to my heart, each sentence seemed fit to one day become a quote by somebody else; each speech she pronounced seemed to have come straight out of a book of the best literature. But by the time I realized the truth it was too late. I had fallen deep into meaning of her spoken poetry; she was a cryptogram I wanted to solve and a sonnet I wanted to cherish. And, having learned the truth, I found it not so easy to cut the roots of admiration from my heart, because I was quite sure that like a tree, I needed them to keep on living. But how could I still admire a woman, a living poem and a work of art, whose singing words of beauty were not her own? A woman speaking with the tongues of dead poets and literary men, a lexicon of what has passed, an empty book in which was painstakingly copied line after line of beauty, to try to claim what was not owned and to impress with subtlest, lightest poetry that always seemed familiar?'