Did I choose this life of illusion? Don't be mad. My bed was made, I just lied in it.

In any war story, but especially a true one, it's difficult to separate what happened from what seemed to happen.

... when he kissed her, she received the kiss without returning it, her eyes wide open, not afraid, not a virgin's eyes, just flat and uninvolved.

I cannot remember much, I cannot feel much. Maybe erasure is necessary. Maybe the human spirit defends itself as the body does, attacking infection, enveloping and destroying those malignancies that would otherwise consume us.

Words, too, have genuine substance -- mass and weight and specific gravity.

But the thing about remembering is that you don't forget.

There is always the threat of tomorrow's treachery, or next year's treachery, or the treachery implicit in all the tomorrows beyond that.