The Rent Collector Quotes

The most difficult battles in life are those we fight within. - Old Chinese Proverb

Literature has the power to change lives, minds, and hearts.

Words provide a voice to our deepest feelings. I tell you, words have started and stopped wars. Words have built and lost fortunes. Words have saved and taken lives. Words have won and lost great kingdoms. Even Buddha said, 'Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care, for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill.

Sometimes broken things deserve to be repaired.

Just when we think we have our own stories figured out, heroes arise in the most unexpected places.

While almost everything that surrounds us in life gets old and wears out, stories, like our very souls, don't age.

But literature is unique. To understand literature, you read it with your head, but you interpret it with your heart. The two are forced to work together-and, quite frankly, they often don't get along.

Literature is a cake with many toys baked inside--and even if you find them all, if you don't enjoy the path that leads you to them, it will be a hollow accomplishment.

But as a wise and great teacher once explained so patiently, all good stories - stories that touch your soul, stories that change your nature, stories that cause you to become a better person from their telling-these stories always contain truth.

Love Forever If I were the trees ... I would turn my leaves to gold and scatter them toward the sky so they would circle about your head and fall in piles at your feet... so you might know wonder. If I were the mountains ... I would crumble down and lift you up so you could see all of my secret places, where the rivers flow and the animals run wild ... so you might know freedom. If I were the ocean ... I would raise you onto my gentle waves and carry you across the seas to swim with the whales and the dolphins in the moonlit waters, so you might know peace. If I were the stars ... I would sparkle like never before and fall from the sky as gentle rain, so that you would always look towards heaven and know that you can reach the stars. If I were the moon ... I would scoop you up and sail you through the sky and show you the Earth below in all its wonder and beauty, so you might know that all the Earth is at your command. If I were the sun ... I would warm and glow like never before and light the sky with orange and pink, so you would gaze upward and always know the glory of heaven. But I am me ... and since I am the one who loves you, I will wrap you in my arms and kiss you and love you with all of my heart, and this I will do until ... the mountains crumble down ... and the oceans dry up ... and the stars fall from the sky ... and the sun and moon burn out ... And that is forever.

Peace is a product of both patience and persistence.

I have been quiet today because fear in my heart has been fighting with frustration in my brain, leaving little energy for my mouth.

People only go to the places they have visited first in their minds.

Child, unless you are opening a dictionary, you start at the book's opening page and you read the story through. If it's terribly dreadful, then just put it down and move on. What I will not tolerate is reading ahead. It's not fair to the reader or to the author. If they meant to have their books read backwards, they would surely have written them that way!

Believing isnot enough, Sang Ly. If you want to resurrect hope, doing is the most important. Can you do these things?

...at any time of the day, corduroy is a highly stressful fabric. Rent collectors wear it. Tax collectors, too. History teachers add leather elbow patches.

Sang Ly, we are literature-our lives, our hopes, our desires, our despairs, our passions, our strengths, our weaknesses. Stories express our longing not only to make a difference today but to see what is possible for tomorrow. Literature has been called a handbook for the art of being human.

If you are going to do wrong, at least make sure you don’t get fat from it.

Crafting a plan is easy. Taking action will always prove to be the more difficult path.

Landlords took the side streets, typically not in their Saab or Audi but in their “rent collector,” some oil-leaking, rusted-out van or truck that hauled around extension cords, ladders, maybe a loaded pistol, plumbing snakes, toolboxes, a can of Mace, nail guns, and other necessities.

Worry in the dark can make it even darker.

One of the first lessons that I hope you grasp is that woven into meaningful literature, so tightly that it can't be separated, is a telling lesson, even in stories as short as this one." "Always?" I ask. "Always!" she confirms. "Good stories teach!

Just as ants do when their nest is disturbed, we return, survey the damage, and then without hesitation immediately get to work rebuilding.

Rain in the dump makes water filthy. Rain in the garden cleanses.

I tell Ki that I'm learning about words and stories to help our family. He says he's protecting our family with his knife. Who is right? Which is best, protecting with words or with his knife?" She is instant, certain, and solemn, and there is no misunderstanding her meaning. "Fight ignorance with words. Fight evil with your knife. Tell you husband, Ki, that he is right.

It's dangerous because my thoughts get away from themselves. Mixed with emotion, they pile up like the garbage that surrounds me. They stack layer upon layer, deeper and deeper, month after month- crushing, festering, smoldering. One day something is certain to combust.

Her biggest fault - perplexing to this day - is that Mother loves to pick trash. "Its an adventure", she says. "You never know what surprises you'll find

If people realized someone would be sorting through their trash, would they be more careful in what they throw away?

Life will not always be so hard and cruel. Our difficulties are but a moment.

When you realize how perfect everything is you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky.” —Buddha

I distance myself from heaven and then complain that heaven is distant.

[The wives of powerful noblemen] must be highly knowledgeable about government, and wise – in fact, far wiser than most other such women in power. The knowledge of a baroness must be so comprehensive that she can understand everything. Of her a philosopher might have said: "No one is wise who does not know some part of everything." Moreover, she must have the courage of a man. This means that she should not be brought up overmuch among women nor should she be indulged in extensive and feminine pampering. Why do I say that? If barons wish to be honoured as they deserve, they spend very little time in their manors and on their own lands. Going to war, attending their prince's court, and traveling are the three primary duties of such a lord. So the lady, his companion, must represent him at home during his absences. Although her husband is served by bailiffs, provosts, rent collectors, and land governors, she must govern them all. To do this according to her right she must conduct herself with such wisdom that she will be both feared and loved. As we have said before, the best possible fear comes from love. When wronged, her men must be able to turn to her for refuge. She must be so skilled and flexible that in each case she can respond suitably. Therefore, she must be knowledgeable in the mores of her locality and instructed in its usages, rights, and customs. She must be a good speaker, proud when pride is needed; circumspect with the scornful, surly, or rebellious; and charitably gentle and humble toward her good, obedient subjects. With the counsellors of her lord and with the advice of elder wise men, she ought to work directly with her people. No one should ever be able to say of her that she acts merely to have her own way. Again, she should have a man's heart. She must know the laws of arms and all things pertaining to warfare, ever prepared to command her men if there is need of it. She has to know both assault and defence tactics to insure that her fortresses are well defended, if she has any expectation of attack or believes she must initiate military action. Testing her men, she will discover their qualities of courage and determination before overly trusting them. She must know the number and strength of her men to gauge accurately her resources, so that she never will have to trust vain or feeble promises. Calculating what force she is capable of providing before her lord arrives with reinforcements, she also must know the financial resources she could call upon to sustain military action. She should avoid oppressing her men, since this is the surest way to incur their hatred. She can best cultivate their loyalty by speaking boldly and consistently to them, according to her council, not giving one reason today and another tomorrow. Speaking words of good courage to her men-at-arms as well as to her other retainers, she will urge them to loyalty and their best efforts.

Two things happen when you get to be old. One, you gather experience and knowledge. You learn from your mistakes, and thereby offer wisdom to others. The second thing that happens is that you grow forgetful, ornery and senile, and when you offer advice, well, you sometimes just don't know what you're talking about. Often it's hard for everyone-including me-to know the difference.

Literature is a cake with many toys baked inside-and even if you find them all, if you don't enjoy the path that leads you to them, it will be a hollow accomplishment. There was a playwright named Heller, American, I believe, who summed it up this way. He said, 'They knew everything about literature except how to enjoy it.

A common form of establishment, for much of Besźel’s history, had been the DöplirCaffé: one Muslim and one Jewish coffeehouse, rented side by side, each with its own counter and kitchen, halal and kosher, sharing a single name, sign, and sprawl of tables, the dividing wall removed. Mixed groups would come, greet the two proprietors, sit together, separating on communitarian lines only long enough to order their permitted food from the relevant side, or ostentatiously from either and both in the case of freethinkers. Whether the DöplirCaffé was one establishment or two depended on who was asking: to a property tax collector, it was always one.

At times I think I can hear my brain screaming, "I am reading here, so please, all other body parts, do your best to keep up!

I don't know if it becomes literature...I just know the two added words cause me to look at the ordinary sentences differently. And quite honestly, I find that to be magical!

Grandfather had a saying: If you know a lot, know enough to make people respect you. If you are stupid, be stupid enough so they can pity you.

In almost every story, the fiercest battles often take place within.

We can’t claim heaven as our own if we are just going to sit under it.

Of all the stories I have read about heroes, and all that I could ever read, of one thing I'm certain-he is mine.

Life will not always be so hard or cruel. Our difficulties are but a moment.

While almost everything that surrounds us in life gets old and wears out, stories, like our very souls, don’t age.

I don’t understand. How does reading stories about others answer those questions for me?” “That is what I’m hoping you will understand—every story we read, Sang Ly, is about us, in one way or another.

Today the man who has the courage to build himself a house constructs a meeting place for the people who will descend upon him on foot, by car, or by telephone. Employees of the gas, the electric, and the water- works will arrive; agents from life and fire insurance companies; building inspectors, collectors of radio tax; mortgage creditors and rent assessors who tax you for living in your own home.

Sang Ly, the desire to believe, to look forward to better days, to want them, to expect them-it seems to be ingrained in our being. Whether we like it or not, hope is written so deeply into our hearts that we just can't help ourselves, no matter how hard we try otherwise.we love the story because we are Sarann or Tattercoats or Cinderella. We all struggle with the same problems and doubts. We all long for the day when we'll get our own reward. We all harbor hope-

In the twilight the Americans brought gin and tonics to the beach and rented pedal-boats shaped like giant swans. They trolled night crawlers from their bamboo poles, sipped their drinks and nodded to the lovers who paddled among them, spellbound, all of them, in the tangerine dusk.

You're anxious to jump into the river, but you haven't checked to see if the water is deep enough." I don't bother pretending. "Sopeap, you speak in riddles. What are you saying?" "I'm saying that life at the dump has limitations, but it serves a plate of predictability. Stung Meanchey offers boundaries. There are dangers, but they are understood, accepted, and managed. When we step out of that world, we enter an area of unknown. I'm questioning if you are ready. Everyone loves adventure, Sang Ly, when they know how the story ends. In life, however, our own endings are never as perfect.

People only go to the places they have visited first in their minds," she says, uttering the phrase as if secrets to the universe have just been shared. "Perhaps that is how learning can help you. However, first you must see it, feel it, and then believe it. When you do, where it takes you may surprise.

No matter how awful it is to be sitting in this Terrible magazine office, and talking to this Circular-saw-voiced West side girl in a dirt- Stiff Marimekko and lavender glasses, and this Cake-bearded boy in short-rise Levi’s, and hearing The drip and rasp of their tones on the softening Stone of my brain, and losing The thread of their circular words, and looking Out through their faces and soot on the window to Winter in University Place, where a blue- Faced man, made of rags and old newspapers, faces A horrible grill, looking in at the food and the faces It disappears into, and feeling, Perhaps, for the first time in days, a hunger instead Of a thirst; where two young girls in peacoats and hair As long as your arm and snow-sanded sandals Proceed to their hideout, a festering cold-water flat Animated by roaches, where their lovers, loafing in wait To warm and be warmed by brainless caresses, Stake out a state Of suspension; and where a black Cadillac 75 Stands by the curb to collect a collector of rents, Its owner, the owner of numberless tenement flats; And swivelling back To the editorial pad Of Chaos, a quarter-old quarterly of the arts, And its brotherly, sisterly staff, told hardly apart In their listlessly colored sackcloth, their ash-colored skins, Their resisterly sullenness, I suddenly think That no matter how awful it is, it’s better than it Would be to be dead. But who can be sure about that?

Our trials, our troubles, our demons, our angels—we reenact them because these stories explain our lives. Literature's lessons repeat because they echo from deeper places. They touch a chord in our soul because they're notes we've already heard played. Plots repeat because, from the birth of man, they explore the reasons for our being. Stories teach us to not give up hope because there are times in our own journey when we mustn't give up hope. They teach endurance because in our lives we are meant to endure. They carry messages that are older than the words themselves, messages that reach beyond the page.

We had only one thing in common in our family in the Passage, and that was our terror of going hungry. We all had plenty of that. It was with me from my first breath. . . They passed it on to me. . . We were all obsessed with it. . . As far as we were concerned, the soul was fear. In every room the walls sweated fear of going without. . . It made us swallow the wrong way, it made us bolt our meals and run around town like mad. . . we zigzagged like fleas all over Paris, from the Place Maubert to the Etoile, for fear of being auctioned off, for fear of the rent, of the gas man, the tax collector. . . We were always in such a hurry I never had time to wipe myself properly.

When you find your purpose---and you will find your purpose---never let go. Peace is a product of both Patience and Persistence.

All good stories - stories that touch your soul, stories that change your nature, stories that cause you to become a better person from their telling - these stories always contain truth.

William Shakespeare called dreams the ‘children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy.

Sang Ly, we are literature—our lives, our hopes, our desires, our despairs, our passions, our strengths, our weaknesses. Stories express our longing not only to make a difference today but to see what is possible for tomorrow. Literature has been called a handbook for the art of being human. So, yes. It will do that.

But I hope reading will give him something to look forward to, a reason to fight. I want to believe reading will fill him with courage.

I try to sleep myself, but my occupied mind is holding my tired body hostage.

When you find your purpose-- and you will find your purpose-- never let it go. Peace is a product of both patience and persistence.

don’t we all choose to live in the dump in certain aspects of our lives?

skinny).

Buddha said, ‘Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care, for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill.’ Do

For news of the heart, watch the face.

The conversation went on. It was difficult for Shevek to follow, both in language and in substance. He was being told about things he had no experience of at all. He had never seen a rat, or an army barracks, or an insane asylum, or a poorhouse, or a pawnshop, or an execution, or a thief, or a tenement, or a rent collector, or a man who wanted to work and could not find work to do, or a dead baby in a ditch. All these things occurred in Efor's reminiscences as commonplaces or as commonplace horrors. Shevek had to exercise his imagination and summon every scrap of knowledge he had about Urras to understand them at all. And yet they were familiar to him in a way that nothing he had yet seen there was, and he did understand. This was the Urras he had learned about in school on Anarres. This was the world from which his ancestors had fled, preferring hunger and the desert and endless exile. This was the world that had formed Odo's mind and had jailed her eight times for speaking it. This was the human suffering in which the ideals of his society were rooted, the ground from which they sprang. It was not 'the real Urras.' The dignity and beauty of the room he and Efor were in was as real as the squalor to which Efor was native. To him a thinking man's job was not to deny one reality at the expense of the other, but to include and connect. It was not an easy job.

Las personas cultas -decían los nuevos líderes- son un lastre para los trabajadores. Las ciudades encarnan el mal. La cultura y la educación son inútiles y egoístas. El dinero y el comercio están corruptos. La fuerza de un país es el hombre trabajador, no los parásitos que viven de él. ¡Plantad arroz para que el país prospere! (...) Aquello era un holocausto. No solo de la vida, sino también del sentido común y de la razón.

We were just so glad to finally have the war over, nobody seemed to care who had won. We didn’t understand that peace at any price is a fool’s bargain. We welcomed apathy with open arms, invited it over for dinner, offered it keys to the spare bedroom, then silently slept while it sneaked up behind and cut our throats. We wanted change. Could the new leaders be any worse than those who had just been overthrown? I would find out that very day.

Words provide a voice to our deepest feelings. I tell you, words have started and stopped wars. Words have built and lost fortunes. Words have saved and taken lives. Words have won and lost great kingdoms.

Our trials, our troubles, our demons, our angels—we reenact them because these stories explain our lives. Literature’s lessons repeat because they echo from deeper places.

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Remember, Sang Ly. When you find your purpose—and you will find your purpose—never let go. Peace is a product of both patience and persistence.

I need to do something more to help him. I need to do something now.” As Sopeap’s shoulders rose, her features wrinkled. “And you think that something is teaching him to read? Why, if medicines don’t work, do you believe reading will help?” How could I explain the illogical feelings swirling and swelling inside, forcing my action? “Sopeap,” I said, “I’m not replacing one with another. I don’t expect reading to make his body well. But I hope reading will give him something to look forward to, a reason to fight. I want to believe reading will fill him with courage.

Believing is not enough, Sang Ly. If you want to resurrect hope, doing is the most important. Can you do these things?

As you learn, as you read stories that speak to you and begin to understand how they relate to you and your family—you may find questions you weren’t expecting.” “What kinds of questions?” “The deepest questions of mankind: What is the meaning of my life? Why am I here at the dump? What’s in store for me on this path? Do the ancestors listen and care about me? Why is life so hard? What is good and what is evil? What must I do about it? The list goes on and on.” “I don’t understand. How does reading stories about others answer those questions for me?” “That is what I’m hoping you will understand—every story we read, Sang Ly, is about us, in one way or another.” “But how . . . ?

Does everything always have to mean something else?” I ask before we get started. Who knew that literature was so tangled and complicated? “That is a wonderful lesson, Sang Ly. Remember it.” “What was it again?” I ask, not certain to what she was referring. She repeats it for me. “In literature, everything means something.

If you want to tell your husband how much he means to you, what do you do? Do you give him gold?” “He would no doubt prefer that.” “If you gave him garbage trucks filled with gold, you would give only empty riches. To convey true love, Sang Ly, you whisper . . .” She waits for me to fill in the answer. “Words.” “What words? What would you say to him?” “I guess I would say, I love you.” “Three words, Sang Ly, three simple words that communicate more, mean more, than worldly riches. Words provide a voice to our deepest feelings. I tell you, words have started and stopped wars. Words have built and lost fortunes. Words have saved and taken lives. Words have won and lost great kingdoms. Even Buddha said, ‘Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care, for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill.’ Do you understand?” “I

Her father would climb up first and then take his precious daughter’s hand to lift her gently up. It was the perfect spot from which to watch the races, as it raised them above an otherwise thronging crowd and allowed them to see the boats, even when they were still distant. Today, there was no one there to lift her up and hold her hand, so she climbed alone. While she was sad that her father wasn’t with her, she was also grateful he had taught her how to climb by herself. Standing atop the wall, she felt an unusual peace.

Sang Ly, the desire to believe, to look forward to better days, to want them, to expect them—it seems to be engrained in our being. Whether we like it or not, hope is written so deeply into our hearts that we just can’t help ourselves, no matter how hard we try otherwise. We love the story because we are Sarann or Tattercoats or Cinderella. We all struggle with the same problems and doubts. We all long for the day when we’ll get our own reward. We all harbor hope—and that’s why it’s such a problem.

I’m suggesting writers can’t help themselves,” she says. “Our trials, our troubles, our demons, our angels—we reenact them because these stories explain our lives. Literature’s lessons repeat because they echo from deeper places. They touch a chord in our soul because they’re notes we’ve already heard played. Plots repeat because, from the birth of man, they explore the reasons for our being. Stories teach us to not give up hope because there are times in our own journey when we mustn’t give up hope. They teach endurance because in our lives we are meant to endure. They carry messages that are older than the words themselves, messages that reach beyond the page.

stories are all around us, that we are swimming in literature, even at Stung Meanchey. If literature is about us—our hopes and dreams, our trials and struggles—could she have been talking about people: friends, neighbors, strangers, enemies? At first I dismiss the thought, since most people’s stories feel so mundane compared to the exciting tales of dragons and maidens, old men and boats, young love, and valiant war. I suppose that outwardly that may be true, but she also taught that life’s most difficult battles are those fought within—and that would include everyone.

I had read essays describing the horrors of genocide committed during the Chinese Cultural Revolution. I had lectured on Jewish literature detailing the atrocities carried out by Hitler. I had read the words in my head but never comprehended their depth in my heart—until I lived them. Only later would I realize that there are no words harsh enough, no paragraphs wide enough, no books deep enough to convey the weight of true human sorrow.

at any time of the day corduroy is a highly stressful fabric. Rent collectors wear it. Tax collectors, too. History teachers add leather elbow patches. To

Stories teach us to not give up hope because there are times in our own journey when we mustn’t give up hope. They teach endurance because in our lives we are meant to endure. They carry messages that are older than the words themselves, messages that reach beyond the page.

Arab-Jewish relations in the Old City had always been good. Most of the property in the quarter was Arab-owned, and one of its familiar sights was the Arab rent collector making his way from house to house, pausing in each for the rent and a ritual cup of coffee. Here the Islamic respect for men of religion had been naturally extended to the quarter's scholars in their yeshivas. As for the quarter's poor artisans and shopkeepers, the most natural of bonds, poverty, tied them to their Arab neighbors.

Sang Ly, we are literature—our lives, our hopes, our desires, our despairs, our passions, our strengths, our weaknesses. Stories express our longing not only to make a difference today but to see what is possible for tomorrow. Literature has been called a handbook for the art of being human. So,

It's his way of saying that dreams are more important than we can ever imagine-we just need to listen.

Who is right? Which is best, protecting with words or with his knife?

What I didn't understand was that in spite of their power, word meanings are sometimes hidden or disguised.

No matter how much we cling to hope our stories seldom end as we expect.

In Cambodia, it’s unfortunately common for husbands both to drink and to beat their wives. Other families are abandoned, left to fend for themselves. Instead, my husband runs through the city for the better part of the night to make sure that his wife and son are safe.

I imagine this is how it must be with our ancestors. They watch us closely, full of love and concern, sometimes whispering encouragement through a crack, but mostly just satisfied to know that we are happy.

For news of a mother’s heart, watch her child’s face.

Three words, Sang Ly, three simple words that communicate more, mean more, than worldly riches. Words provide a voice to our deepest feelings. I tell you, words have started and stopped wars. Words have built and lost fortunes. Words have saved and taken lives. Words have won and lost great kingdoms. Even Buddha said, ‘Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care, for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill.’ Do you understand?

Literature has been called a handbook for the art of being human.

That. . .is the paradox, the part that is perplexing. It seems, that if we take theses stories too literally, if we expect our personal lives to always end with a handsome prince, most of us will close our books with shattered dreams. Yet, on the other hand. . .if we don't take the meaning of these stories literally, if we treat theses tales as simple entertainment, we miss the deepest most life-changing aspects of the stories. We miss the entire reason they exist.

We are literature—our lives, our hopes, our desires, our despairs, our passions, our strengths, our weaknesses. Stories express our longing not only to make a difference today but to see what is possible for tomorrow. Literature has been called a handbook for the art of being human. from The Rent Collector

But literature is unique. To understand literature, you read it with your head, but you interpret it with your heart. The two are forced to work together—and, quite frankly, they often don’t get along.

the desire to believe, to look forward to better days, to want them, to expect them—it seems to be engrained in our being. Whether we like it or not, hope is written so deeply into our hearts that we just can’t help ourselves, no matter how hard we try otherwise. We love the story because we are Sarann or Tattercoats or Cinderella. We all struggle with the same problems and doubts. We all long for the day when we’ll get our own reward. We all harbor hope—and that’s why it’s such a problem.

We were just so glad to finally have the war over, nobody seemed to care who had won. We didn’t understand that peace at any price is a fool’s bargain. We welcomed apathy with open arms, invited it over for dinner, offered it keys to the spare bedroom, then silently slept while it sneaked up behind and cut our throats.

Sing with me, bird. Trill nature’s song and carry tired limbs through indigo sky. Open my eyes to the world’s expanse and Nature’s wonder. Scurry with me, beetle. Remind of life’s short days and of precious time. Tap your violet legs about to keep me alert and prepared. Scurry, beetle—sing, bird—swim, fish—rest, turtle—pull, water buffalo—run, tiger—laugh, monkey. Play together in my dreams. Dance across nature’s sky. It’s now time that I

If I were the trees . . . I would turn my leaves to gold and scatter them toward the sky so they would circle about your head and fall in piles at your feet . . . so you might know wonder. If I were the mountains . . . I would crumble down and lift you up so you could see all of my secret places, where the rivers flow and the animals run wild . . . so you might know freedom. I’m using inflections in my voice to keep Nisay’s attention. However it’s Ki whom I’ve roped in. He sits wide-eyed as a curious little boy at story time. If I were the ocean . . . I would raise you onto my gentle waves and carry you across the seas to swim with the whales and the dolphins in the moonlit waters, so you might know peace. If I were the stars . . . I would sparkle like never before and fall from the sky as gentle rain, so that you would always look towards heaven and know that you can reach the stars. If I were the moon . . . I would scoop you up and sail you through the sky and show you the Earth below in all its wonder and beauty, so you might know that all the Earth is at your command. If I were the sun . . . I would warm and glow like never before and light the sky with orange and pink, so you would gaze upward and always know the glory of heaven. But I am me . . . and since I am the one who loves you, I will wrap you in my arms and kiss you and love you with all of my heart, and this I will do until . . . the mountains crumble down . . . and the oceans dry up . . . and the stars fall from the sky . . . and the sun and moon burn out . . . And that is forever.