[Y]ou can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil.

It wasn't a question of deceit. Just the opposite; he wanted to heat up the truth, to make it burn so hot that you would feel exactly what he felt.

And in the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It's about sunlight. It's about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It's about love and memory. It's about sorrow. It's about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.

Certain blood was being shed for uncertain reasons.

The world shrieks and sinks talons into our hearts. This we call memory.

Even then, at nine years old, I wanted to live inside her body. I wanted to melt into her bones - THAT kind of love.

But I do like churches. The way it feels inside. It feels good when you just sit there, like you're in a forest and everything's really quiet, expect there's still this sound you can't hear.