You__l have days of complete lack of faith in your abilities. But you have to keep coming back. That__ when you know you__e a writer _ when you take the failures and appear at the desk again, over and over again.

The impoverished always try to keep moving, as if relocating might help.

I've wandered through the real world, and written myself through the darkness of the streets inside me. I see people walking through the city and wonder where they've been, and what the moments of their lives have done to them. If they're anything like me, their moments have held them up and shot them down.Sometimes I just survive.But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.That's when the stories show up in me.They find me all the time.They're made of underdogs and fighters. They're made of hunger and desire and trying to live decent.The only trouble is, I don't know which of those stories comes first.Maybe they all just merge into one.We'll see, I guess.I'll let you know when I decide.

a young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow

It would then be brought abruptly to an end, for the brightness had shown suffering the way.

The point is, Ilsa Hermann had decided to make suffering her triumph. When it refused to let go of her, she succumbed to it. She embraced it.