Silence In Elie Wiesel's 'Night'

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Night. The deepest hour. I wish I could write. And tell of a silent world that has no hope and no strength. I wish I could reach the page beyond its surface, cut it wide open, cry and heal. Tell the tales of those who never were, voices lost in something too big to even remember. I used to act. I know silence, how expressive, how intense. I wish I could scream his rebellion, his thirst for touch, for music, movement, exchange. That's right, silence isn't an aloof soul, who despises the world. Silence is everywhere, like a sleeping volcano. Will he ever talk? Will anyone let him regurgitate centuries of self-control? Is it scary, isn't it? How much more frightening when the boiling magma is inside you, buried away, not welcome anywhere.

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