A history devoid of dates and names, a chronicle of sensations and fears and smells: her own private history. All she had was a giant mosaic composed of countless shards of memories and experience-fragments. She lost her entire family in the war, and when it was over she was left with no external, adult narrative to mediate between her experiences and the world. My mother went through World War II as a child. What’s important to you is important, and what isn’t-simply doesn’t exist. But when you’re a child, creation goes in the opposite direction: from the inside outward. When you’re an adult, you are just a little detail amid the infinite universe, a speck of dust resting on the edge of the endless plain known as the world.
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