When we think of the past it’s the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.
There was this superstitious fear on the part of the pygmies of the present for the relics of the giants of the past.
It’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out.
For, after all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable what then?
As all historians know, the past is a great darkness, and filled with echoes. Voices may reach us from it; but what they say to us is imbued with the obscurity of the matrix out of which they come; and, try as we may, we cannot always decipher them precisely in the clearer light of our own day.