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That is just the way with memory; nothing that she brings to us is complete. she is a willful child; all her toys are broken. i remember tumbling into a huge dust-hole when a very small boy, but i have not the faintest recollection of ever getting out again; and if memory were all we had to trust to, i should be compelled to believe i was there still.

-Jerome K. Jerome

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That Is Just The Way With Memory;

Jerome K. Jerome

That is just the way with memory; nothing that she brings to us is complete. she is a willful child; all her toys are broken. i remember tumbling into a huge dust-hole when a very small boy, but i have not the faintest recollection of ever getting out again; and if memory were all we had to trust to, i should be compelled to believe i was there still.

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    <p style="font-size: 1.2rem; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 10px;">"that is just the way with memory; nothing that she brings to us is complete. she is a willful child; all her toys are broken. i remember tumbling into a huge dust-hole when a very small boy, but i have not the faintest recollection of ever getting out again; and if memory were all we had to trust to, i should be compelled to believe i was there still."</p>
    <footer style="font-size: 1rem; font-weight: bold;">— Jerome K. Jerome</footer>
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Memories Children Believe

More From Jerome K. Jerome

We all know of course, that we should never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever fiddle around in any way with electrical equipment. never.

Time is a lot of the things people say that god is. there's always preexisting, and having no end. there's the notion of being all powerful-because nothing can stand against time, can it? not mountains, not armies. and time is, of course, all-healing. give anything enough time, and everything is taken care of: all pain encompassed, all hardship erased, all loss subsumed. ashes to ashes, dust to dust. remember, man, that thou art dust; and unto dust thou shalt return. and if time is anything akin to god, i suppose that memory must be the devil.

Crazy isn´t always what they say it is. it´s not always the old woman wearing sneakers and a skirt and a scarf, wandering around with a shopping cart, hollering at no one, nothing, tumbling through years in her head. no. sometimes it is a girl wearing boots and jeans and a sweater, arms crossed in front of her, shivering, wandering through the streets at night, all night, murmuring to no one, nothing, tumbling through the strange unreal dimensions in her head.

You didn't plan to write a story; it just happened. well, it could be argued that the next thing you should do is find a hole to dig. right? so you start digging a hole and then somebody brings a body along and puts it in. that's what a story must feel like to me. it's not that you say, "i want to write a story about a gravedigger." but you're walking along and "i don't know what i'm doing here in this story,' and - boop! a shovel. "oh, interesting. ok, what does one do with a shovel? digs a hole. why? i don't know yet. dig the hole! oh, look a body."

She didn’t understand why it was happening,” he said. “i had to tell her she would die. her social worker said i had to tell her. i had to tell her she would die, so i told her she was going to heaven. she asked if i would be there, and i said that i would not, not yet. but eventually, she said, and i promised that yes, of course, very soon. and i told her that in the meantime we had great family up there that would take care of her. and she asked me when i would be there, and i told her soon. twenty-two years ago.

For a mother the project of raising a boy is the most fulfilling project she can hope for. she can watch him, as a child, play the games she was not allowed to play; she can invest in him her ideas, aspirations, ambitions, and values - or whatever she has left of them; she can watch her son, who came from her flesh and whose life was sustained by her work and devotion, embody her in the world. so while the project of raising a boy is fraught with ambivalence and leads inevitably to bitterness, it is the only project that allows a woman to be - to be through her son, to live through her son.

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