Your Story, My Story

by Connie Palmen

She wanted more than anything to be adored, but she mercilessly punished anyone who ever loved her.

skeptical fortune-teller:

Oxymoron

her voice made me as deaf to the crashing of the cymbals as to the weeping of the stars.

destined for a monotonous existence as a housewife in a Boston suburb, stupid, fat, and knitting.

me lol

All literature stems from a wounded soul, from the spiritual exertion of the human defense mechanism to heal our pain and conquer death. The search for the highest knowledge—that of the self—brings you to a character whose prototype can be found in a hero or a coward, a god or a rebel. And sometimes we have to learn to read our myth in order to make a timely escape from the narrative cage of an ancient script, from the prescribed fate which a character appears to obey without free will.

“You have too much power over me,” she said. “I don’t want to die.”

To deny violence is to summon it. To deny evil is to summon it.

what everyone calls fantasy is really just a way of discovering universal truths, truths which return, century after century, in all their ghastliness, inexhaustible in their distortion of the same thing: the marital struggle between good and evil.

Memory is literary by nature. It takes factual events and gives them a metaphorical charge, lending what really happened a symbolic weight, persistently in search of the security of a story.

Oscar Wilde was right when he said that all great minds acquired disciples, but it’s always Judas who writes the biography.

“Victoria Lucas,” she said triumphantly. “Light prevails.” “Or Lucifer wins,” I said.

profound bond

:(