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Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
“I can’t,” she says, looking up. “I can’t hold a pen. I can’t tell a story. I can’t wield a weapon, or make someone remember. But art,” she says with a quieter smile, “art is about ideas. And ideas are wilder than memories. They’re like weeds, always finding their way up.”
A story is an idea, wild as a weed, springing up wherever it is planted.
