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368 pages, Hardcover
Published June 14, 2018
Because I carry in my memory not just the stories but the ancestors of stories too. Is that hard to understand? That stories have their parent stories and grandparent stories?
We may decide to respect her fictions and give her the benefit of the doubt, making some concession for her instinct for subterfuge. After all, we are arguably more than the sum of the situations that overtake us in life. We are also the denials we practise, the alternative images of ourselves we cherish and all our alter-histories. We are also the people we wish we were and all the things we wish had happened.
And though one’s belly must be filled and one’s vanity be honoured, still there is cause aside and apart from these, such a cause as the world's fools and saints and artists and madmen of genius have known.
She was seasoned enough to know there was no such thing as lasting love. Only an accumulation of small kindnesses, many things built up into a semblance of ancourage, an intuiting and an answering of dire needs in an unstable equilibrium of compromises.
To breathe free of its tyranny, to forget it for a week, a day. Not to cede so large a portion of my soul to it. For surely there were other summonings, hankerings of the body and the heart, that this austerity of art peremptorily exiled.