A Lie Hides The Truth. A Story

I Have A Painter's Memory. I Can Remember Things From My Childhood Which Were So Powerfully Imprinted On Me, The Whole Scene Comes Back.

It Was Hard To Reassure Grown-ups When You Weren't Certain Yourself What You Were Feeling And Thinking—when Thoughts Dissolved Before You Could Name Them.

Labels Not Only Free Us From The Obligation To Think Creatively; They Numb Our Sensibilities, Our Power To Feel. During The Vietnam War, The Phrase Body Count Entered Our Vocabulary. It Is An Ambiguous Phrase, Inorganic, Even Faintly Sporty. It Distanced Us From The Painful Reality Of Corpses, Of Dead, Mutilated People.

The Truth Came Slowly Like A Story Told By People Interrupting Each Other.

When I Had A Few Francs, I Spent Them At A Café On The Place De Longchamps, A Block Or So From My Pension, Where I Could Order A Glass Of Beaujolais And A Plate Of String Beans In Vinaigrette For The Equivalent Of Fifteen Cents.