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We don't experience the world. We experience our expectations of the world.
It can't be accidental that we bring back dead people we've known and loved in our dreams. Surely that's a form of wishing.
We make our narratives, and those created stories can't be separated from the culture in which we live.
Trauma doesn't appear in words, but in a roar of terror, sometimes with images. Words create the anatomy of a story, but within each story there are openings that can't be closed.
There is no clear border between remembering and imagining.
Real meaning, true insight is rarely dry. It's almost always accompanied by emotion.
Trauma isn't part of a story; it's outside story. It is what we refuse to make part of our story.
History is made by amnesia.
I found it incomprehensible, and yet those months are blurry now. I see bits, not wholes [...] all saturated with general misery. It's as if my sadness soaked the architecture. I can tell you a story about it, and I wouldn't be lying, but would that reconstruction of events be real or true?
These journalists actually believe they can get the real story, the objective truth, or tell both sides, as if the world is always split in two.