Fiction is the lie that helps us understand the truth.
I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.
My life is storytelling. I believe in stories, in their incredible power to keep people alive, to keep the living alive, and the dead.
If you don't care for obscenity, you don't care for the truth.
That's what fiction is for. It's for getting at the truth when the truth isn't sufficient for the truth.
If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie.
A lie, sometimes, can be truer than the truth, which is why fiction gets written.
War is hell, but that's not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead.
By telling stories, you objectify your own experience. You separate it from yourself. You pin down certain truths. You make up others. You start sometimes with an incident that truly happened, and you carry it forward by inventing incidents that did not in fact occur but that nonetheless help to clarify and explain.
Stories are for joining the past to the future. Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can't remember how you got from where you were to where you are. Stories ar for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story.
A good piece of fiction, in my view, does not offer solutions. Good stories deal with our moral struggles, our uncertainties, our dreams, our blunders, our contradictions, our endless quest for understanding. Good stories do not resolve the mysteries of the human spirit but rather describe and expand up on those mysteries.
The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. There is the illusion of aliveness.
Men killed, and died, because they were embarrassed not to.
Life is never all one thing. It bounces around. Certainly, my own life has.
Why do our politicians put warnings on cigarette packs and not on their own foreheads?
They carried all the emotional baggage of men who might die. Grief, terror, love, longing--these were intangibles, but the intangibles had their own mass and specific gravity, they had tangible weight. They carried shameful memories. They carried the common secret of cowardice.... Men killed, and died, because they were embarrassed not to.
It's a hard thing to explain to somebody who hasn't felt it, but the presence of death and danger has a way of bringing you fully awake. It makes things vivid.
When your afraid,reallyafraid, you see things you never saw before, you pay attention to the world.
But this too is true: stories can save us.
It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things men did or felt they had to do.
It was my view then, and still is, that you don't make war without knowing why. Knowledge of course, is always imperfect, but it seemed to me that when a nation goes to war it must have reasonable confidence in the justice and imperative of its cause. You can't fix your mistakes. Once people are dead, you can't make them undead.
Storytelling is the essential human activity. The harder the situation, the more essential it is.
Words, too, have genuine substance -- mass and weight and specific gravity.
He wished he could've explained some of this. How he had been braver than he ever thought possible, but how he had not been so brave as he wanted to be. The distinction was important.
What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end.
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