“When I confront my personal memories with reality, with facts sharply defined, with the vivid reminisces of others, I realise my negligence. Whole tracts of time were lived and one thought no more of them: whole ages have fallen into desuetude. Looking for them now is like chasing dust around an empty house. But on this occasion—occasioned by this writing effort, which as you see has also become an effort of memory—I sit down to retouch my faded icons. The operation demands loud colours, the loudest possible, yet these too are marred by oblivion. Memory is not a treasure trove that, laid open, dazzles us with its contents. It is a shadowy pit.”
—S. D. Chrostowska, Permission
