I don't write about what I know: I write in order to find out what I know.
Time, we like to say, cures all. But maybe the old saying doesn’t mean time heals. Time cures a secret in its brine, keeping it and finally, paradoxically, destroying it. Nothing is left in that salt solution but the pain or rage, the biting shame that lodged it there. Even they are diluted or denied.
You can’t put much on paper before you betray your secret self, try as you will to keep things civil.
Faith in our time can seem like signing on the dotted line of a prefab doctrine composed of absurdities.
