The story of my life doesn’t exist. Does not exist. There’s never any center to it. No path, no line. There are great spaces where you pretend there used to be someone, but it’s not true, there was no one.
“What things we do, he whispered in shame, such shame, what things we men do. Across the great clutch of history there lay in every corner cinders of some chauvinist sacrament. All will be rent to ruin beneath our banners, he thought.”