I'm an old man writing about a young man, and about that young man's world. Who knows what I remember of the either the man or the world? For years I prided myself in a memory that I could trust, but I can no longer trust the memory I have, and I'm not sure but that my earlier trust may have been misplaced. In addition to a good memory, I also had a fiction writer's imagination - and I can't say with absolute assurance that there were no gaps in that memory, gaps plugged by my imagination without my being aware of it.
That's a little abstract, and I can't see that contemplating it can lead to anything more rewarding than a headache.
But what's a memory, and what's merely the recognition of a memory?
- Lawrence Block, A Writer Prepares, Chapter 21
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