Memory traces a map but cannot cross the border into the past. The map is a fiction, an ideological fixture, a pretense of life where life has passed on, the shadow of a land of shadows. To be remembered is to suffer a form of death. To remember one’s past self, suicide.
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I heard today that Vicky Starr had died on Thanksgiving Day, 2009. When my wife and I moved to Chicago from Spain in 1983, Vicky was one of our first new friends. One of Vicky’s old coats–a handsome wool one, with a fashionable cut–kept my wife warm through a brutal Chicago winter. We had long […]