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262 pages, Paperback
Published September 14, 2017
For the record, I was on to something, the St. Clair bank and their links to terrorist organisations; that was real. I say was, because it isn’t now. Now it’s a poorly researched article written in bad faith, for the moment at least. And Melanie? I was seventeen when she disappeared, a kid. She was a figment of my imagination. No one really saw her, not even me. She wasn’t real, I mean she was, she was flesh and blood – alive; what I mean is she became a story, a myth, a series of actions and consequences folded into my own history. That was my fault. Nothing ever really goes away; isn’t that another law of physics? Entropy. A material version of Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence, atoms reorganised, reconfigured, but never totally destroyed? There’s only so long before a new version of truth reveals itself, the skeletons in the wardrobe rattle and clack and the body is discovered. And there’s always a body, dead or alive. Every story needs a body.
I used to trust the details. I collected them like rare objects or signs of revelation. It was a habit I picked up as a kid, nothing everything around me, listing the particulars of surroundings, people, sounds and smells … recounting them to myself. It stopped me paying attention to how lonely I felt. That was how I worked, how I wrote, focussing on the small, seemingly incidental details and let them reveal the facts, let the details build the story, report everything you see and hear, inoculate yourself from bias. I believed I was doing good, something vital; something to make it right, to atone. I still collect details, but I don’t trust them. Actually better to say that I don’t trust myself to interpret them, so they just collect like a film of dust and obscure what should be clear.