"A graveyard is a wilderness, a place beyond boundaries, a home for unknowns and loss."
"I could not wait to be there with him. I loved those mornings with him, the two of us driving there and back in the quiet of that big car. Or at least I cherish those memories now. Research shows that I have very little authority to speak on behalf of the fleeting emotional states of my formal self. That was thirty years ago. Even writing this paragraph damages my ability to act as credibly proxy for that brown-haired, black-robed boy. We remember best and most not what we experience, but what we SAY about what we experience."
"I had the irrepressible feeling that something had been taken from me, or that I'd lost something, something intangible, maybe, but with the powerful emotional associations of an object, a possession, an heirloom. I kept feeling that I'd gotten something crucially wrong. My knowledge of my father's secret life had tainted and bled into the way I thought about my past. I felt that my childhood, in many of its particulars, had been some how falsified."
"The past cannot be lost in the present. Not even memories were lost, because memories are not fixed but ever-changing, because memories do not record the past buy are only constructions invented in the present. They are a feat of the imagination. They are made now and last only seconds - flashes, images, evanescent, impermanent, gone. Forever. They are not even words on a page."
"I wish I could have those manuscripts, those drafts of my father's stories he wrote when I was a boy, during that time when he was the age I am now, the time when it was irrevocably dawning on him that he was not who he was pretending to be, that he had been in denial a long time, but that denial was no longer working. That time when so much of his life was good and happy and so much of his life was deception - and he knew it and kept going. What words, what sentences, did he put down then? What was the balance between action and reflection? Were the conflicts rooted in situations - a star likely to explode, a huge asteroid on a deadly trajectory, approaching the colony at terrible speed? Or were there more internal conflicts the characters faced, for which they had no good answers? What shape did these stories take? How did these conflicts play out? How did these stories end?
I"m aware that in a good story a character has to want something badly, and this character cannot get what he wants. Not really. He gets something else. Knowing this doesn't make the loss of my father's stories, thousands and thousands of words, and easier."
"In publishing my book, my librarian was saying: I see you. I see how much time you spend here. You love to read, you love to write, you want to be a writer. Be a writer. I have never forgotten. What a gift, the gift of recognition. The gift of permission. Be who you are. It means everything and when others who matter give it to you, it becomes easier, though never easy, to give that permission to yourself."
"I had no idea then about the burden of memory and its costs and consequences. That was something I would still have to learn."
"In a very deep sense you don't have a self unless you have a secret ...And we are now learning that some people are better at doing this than others."
"But it came to me that morning that the most difficult truths I'd had to accept were not related to my father's homosexuality or what had been done to him as a child. It was far more difficult to accept his loneliness and isolation. And my mother's loneliness and isolation. I had always thought of them together; I had always thought of them comforting one another into their old age. Then, when one of them died, the other would be comforted by the memories of their life together. But those memories were of no comfort now."
"I am sort-of-happy for him - a happiness mixed with heartache that I don't have a name for but am learning to accept."