It may be that the most avid readers of new fiction in America today are film producers, an indication of the trouble were in.

Stories distribute the suffering so that it can be borne.

We make a mistake to condescend to the past as if it were preparatory to our own time.

Most people are quiet in the world, and live in it tentatively, as if it were not their own.

And so the ordinary unendurable torments we all experienced were indeed exceptional in the way they were absorbed in each heart.

Banks and churches and courtrooms all depend on the appurtenances of theatre. On illusion. Banks, the illusion of stability and honourable dealings to the rot and corruption of capitalist exploitation. Churches the illusion of sacred sanctuary of purposes of pacifying social discontent. Courtrooms of course designed to promote the illusion of solemn justice. If there was true justice why would such trappings be necessary? Wouldn't a table and chairs and an ordinary room serve just as well?

And so do people pass out of one's life and all you can remember of them is their humanity, a poor fitful thing of no dominion, like your own.