I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.
We all suffer alone in the real world. True empathy’s impossible. But if a piece of fiction can allow us imaginatively to identify with a character’s pain, we might then also more easily conceive of others identifying with their own. This is nourishing, redemptive; we become less alone inside. It might just be that simple.
Sometimes, I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.