How strange it is that I fairly often forget what has happened and get shocked back into awareness of it, over and over, each time as if it were a brand new happening. So the misery stays fresh and violent, when not obliviated in that curious closet I seem to have built for it.
It stays there-shy wicked chameleon beast-even as I ruminate more or less all day, like a cow on its cud, on other people’s worse sufferings. Type by type, name by name, many of course being known cases, mixed with the various mass horrors we take in by report. If we do take them in. Must get back to that some time-what we privileged ones, as we’re called (and are, oh yes!), ever do know of war, famine, torture, etc. As if it weren’t hard enough to consider the widows and others whose telephone numbers you know by heart, the bereaved parents, the friends struck by some nightmare disease.
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