History Is The Lies Of The Victors.

Perhaps The World Progresses Not By Maturing, But By Being In A Permanent State Of Adolescence, Of Thrilled Discovery.

Early In Life, The World Divides Crudely Into Those Who Have Had Sex And Those Who Haven't. Later, Into Those Who Have Known Love, And Those Who Haven't. Later Still - At Least, If We Are Lucky (or, On The Other Hand, Unlucky) - It Divides Into Those Who Have Endured Grief, And Those Who Haven't. These Divisions Are Absolute; They Are Tropics We Cross.

We Live In Time, It Bounds Us And Defines Us, And Time Is Supposed To Measure History, Isn't It? But If We Can't Understand Time, Can't Grasp Its Mysteries Of Pace And Progress, What Chance Do We Have With History--even Our Own Small, Personal, Largely Undocumented Piece Of It?

I Remember Laughing With Relief That The Same Old Adolescent Boredom Goes On From Generation To Generation. ...the Words Took Me Back To My Own Years Of Stagnancy, And That Terrible Waiting For Life To Begin. [p. 68]

History Is That Certainty Produced At The Point Where The Imperfections Of Memory Meet The Inadequacies Of Documentation.