Victoria Chang, from Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief; “Dear Teacher,”
[Text ID: “The language of poetry reminded me to stay alive. It reminded me that, when it felt like I had nothing, I was nothing, I still had words. I could ride language as if on a horseback, and it could take me anywhere, including deeply into myself.”]
think it’s a deep consolation to know that spiders dream, that monkeys tease predators, that dolphins have accents, that lions can be scared silly by a lone mongoose, that otters hold hands, and ants bury their dead. that there isn’t their life and our life. nor your life and my life. that it’s just one teetering and endless thread and all of us, all of us, are entangled w it as deep as entanglement goes. v neat i think.
Solitude had made her secretive—self-manipulated. Years of haunting had dulled her in ways you wouldn’t believe and sharpened her in ways you wouldn’t believe either.
