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And there is one thing I know is true in this world: only what is remembered survives. Only what is written has a chance in the future. People forget. Rivers rise. Stories and songs are snuffed out every time some town takes a fever or loses to a man with a little power. Destruction is common. Creation is rare.
Every life is a tragedy in progress, and I certainly knew no better. But now, I think of each of them as a story that might never be told.
Can you ever really be free if you need somebody?
“I notice that I’m the only woman here that you don’t call Sister,” Flora said quietly, turning to leave. “And while I’m gone, maybe you and your god can both learn my name.”
People talk long and loud about the natural way of things, or what we lost when the world changed. But I can no longer believe that such a world ever existed. We have always been too strange for things to work out so neatly.
I can survive anything but death, and if I’m dead, I’ve got nothing to worry about.”
I told her there were trees full of big orange fruits that tasted like sunshine when you bit them, but there were also monsters in the water and sickness on the air. She laughed and told me I couldn’t have come from a place like that, but I’m all those things, too. She just doesn’t know that yet.
Because safety is sometimes a cage.
Maybe you have a story of someone who helped to build Shy? Someone who was a hero to heroes like Etta? I hope that you do. Stories like that one teach us how to be.”
“Nobody is born a man,” Can said, tucking her face to her shoulder as if to look at her, but keeping her eyes on the road. “You’re born a baby. You’re born naked. Everything after that is something that you learn to do.”
“Trouble sleeping?” “Trouble living.” “Doing okay?” “Still here. Still here.”
She was never lonely, but she belonged only to herself.
I don’t know what I want. Yes, I do. I know exactly what I want, but I can’t let myself want it. Not when it hurts like this.
All we do is lose. I badly want to have someone in my life whom I never have to lose. Never have to say goodbye to and mean it. Never have to take one last look, not knowing whether it really is the last. Is that even possible? It isn’t. We’re all going to leave and die. But does it always have to be so soon?
People will believe anything if you don’t teach them how to reason for themselves.
“There’s better. But maybe better is always paid for by someone else. Maybe there’s no comfort without somebody in pain.”
It’s not just women who have to worry. It’s anyone who isn’t a man.”
Why don’t we tell? I’ve sat in these circles so many times. It is always the men who tell. There are women in these stories. There have to be. But I never hear it from them.
This is the work that women do. We keep the fire of civilization burning, by collecting and protecting stories. It’s what we’ve always done.”
I feel old. I suppose that makes sense. I’m older now than I’ve ever been. But I feel old in the way that means there is nothing ahead. And that is what hurts the most.
