But it didn’t happen; none of it happened. It’s just a screen memory, like the story of the six weeks in Florence that never happened. (After I realized that I had not actually been there that long, I began to believe another story, that I had gone to Russia and then to France, and been caught in the French strikes of 1968—without reference to the fact that they ended two months before I crossed France.) But why do I need these absurd stories? They are not lies; when I tell them, I myself believe them. I don’t lie. Perhaps I tell them to myself when I tell them to others, so that I can hide
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Oooooor, maybe your life is a series of lies you drummed up to make yourself sound more interesting and experienced, and this book is another in that series.
"Why did you say you spent six weeks in Europe when you didn't?"
"Space aliens abducted me."
