It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past; should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photog...
It's a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to evaporate with the past, should exist only in memories glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photography...
It'll be a change," says Marcus. "Something different." "Not a mystery." Marcus laughs. "No. Not a mystery. Just a nice safe history." Ah, my darling. But there is no such thing.
Those who live in memories are never really dead.
But history is a faithless teller whose cruel recourse to hindsight makes fools of its actors.
The Latter, I can tell, is added for my benefit. An assumption that the elderly cannot help but be impressed by the old fashioned.
There was some part of me that never left that house. Rather, some part of the house that wouldn't leave me.
I sound contemptuous, but I am not. I am interested--intrigued even--by the way time erases real lives, leaving only vague imprints. Blood and spirit fade away so that only names and dates remain.
Wars make history seem deceptively simple. They provide clear turning points, easy distinctions.: before and after, winner and loser, right and wrong. True history, the past, is not like that. It isn't flat or linear. It has no outline. It is slipper...
Ah, my darling. But there is no such thing [as a nice safe history].
Poisons are more my thing
És meséltem neked az emlékeimről. Nem mindenről. Célt tűztem ki magamnak, és nem akarlak a múltam meséivel untatni. Inkább arról a különös érzésről meséltem, hogy az emlékek valóságosabbá váltak számomra, mint az életem. Arr...
