Family ties, blood ties, thicker-than-water-connections, clans, your folks, where-you-come-from, what-you-are-made-of: your people are your people, yours and no one else’s, linked up long before you and long after, in a body chain of inevitability, an unavoidable done-deal populated with truck drivers and homemakers, poker players and prostitutes, murderers and more. Hers were immigrant Scot/Irish and indigenous American Indian, pioneers of mixed blood and mixed meanings; robbers, conjurers and outlaws, with dirt under their nails, full heads of thick hair, and high cheekbones. They were workers, raiders, and runners—women and men with stories she might never fully know, but might live to understand—tales of revenge and loss, of envy and greed and hope—of surviving only on the run.
The right ending is an open door you can’t see too far out of. It can mean exactly the opposite of what you are thinking.
—―Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter
well listen, you may as well tell your story because if you don’t, some other clown will, and badly. and serially.
What a story is, is devious. It pretends transparency, forthrightness. It engages with ordinary people, ordinary matters, recognizable stuff. But this is all a masquerade. What good stories deal with is the horror and incomprehensibility of time, the dark encroachment of old catastrophes…
Nothing is lost if one has the courage to proclaim that all is lost and we must begin anew.
—Julio Cortazar Hopscotch (1963)
Memory believes before knowing remembers.
— William Faulkner, Light in August