I have begun to wonder what actually happens in our brains when we return to half-remembered places. What is memory’s perspective? Does the man revise the boy’s view or is the imprint relatively static, a vestige of what was once intimately known?
Very simply, for the mind, absence can be a catalyst for presence.
Every painting is always two paintings: The one you see, and the one you remember.
A book is a collaboration between the one who reads and what is read and, at its best, that coming together is a love story like any other.
That is the strangeness of language: it crosses the boundaries of the body, is at once inside and outside, and it sometimes happens that we don’t notice the threshold has been crossed.