History Is The Lies Of

And If You Had No Tongue, No Celebrating Language, You’d Do This: Cross Your Hands At The Wrist With Palms Facing Towards You; Place Your Crossed Wrists Over Your Heart (the Middle Of Your Chest, Anyway); Then Move Your Hands Outwards A Short Distance, And Open Them Towards The Object Of Your Love. It’s Just As Eloquent As Speech.

Irony ... May Be Defined As What People Miss.

And Yet It Takes Only The Smallest Pleasure Or Pain To Teach Us Time’s Malleability.

Discovering, For Example, That As Witnesses To Your Life Diminish, There Is Less Corroboration, And Therefore Less Certainty, As To What You Are Or Have Been. [p. 65]

This Is What Those Who Haven’t Crossed The Tropic Of Grief Often Fail To Understand: The Fact That Someone Is Dead May Mean That They Are Not Alive, But Doesn’t Mean That They Do Not Exist.