The notion that memory is but a weird elastic was captured by Lance Morrow in this portion of his essay The Fire Hose Of History:
“Robert Frost wrote a poem called ‘Out, Out —-’ in which a boy using a buzz saw to cut stove wood is momentarily careless and cuts his own hand off, and then dies of shock. The others in the farmyard are stunned. But Frost ends the poem with an interesting chill:
And they, since they
were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.”
Such it is when it comes to so much of history as even that so-called “a day that will live in infamy” eventually faded into little more than a factoid as we, not being the ones dead, so quickly turned to our own affairs. To the young, Vietnam today might just as well be the Punic Wars. So it is when it comes to the grand sweep of history. So it is when it comes to individual lives.
So, then, whence comes this vague sense of one’s importance, of significance, of permanence? Maybe think in terms of life as a kind of performance art – believing other people are watching you, judging you, thinking about you. They aren’t. They’ve long turned to their own affairs. I probably wasted three decades thinking otherwise…
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