If it were to touch us it would cripple us or make saints of us; but, for the most part, it does not touch us. We cannot allow it to.
Two pages. Two pages is all it takes to grind me to a halt, to force me to remember, then to harden myself against it. For if I let myself feel all of that, I shall be lost forever more.
And it is exactly as he has described it.
How did he know?
Perhaps I’m not the only one with these thoughts after all.
Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, it we die vicariously and unharmed, and we resume our lives.
See: page 284-285. Coming to America, 1778.