There are tracts in my life that are bare and silent. They are the open spaces where my busy days had their light and air.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing, 
文学是一种面对无法言说之事的方式,为无声者发声。
The true value of a forest is measured not in board feet, but in biodiversity.