A fictionalised account of my childhood.
I’m surprised when I compare my childhood memories with those of other people, because I seem to beable to remember hardly anything. But it must all be in there somewhere. So I’ve reverted to an imaginary account hung on the skeleton of those scraps of recollection I can recall. But this has its advantages. We recount the facts of the outer life in diaries, scrapbooks and histories, but we can only express the truths of the inner life through fiction. It is the inner life that interests me. The inner life escapes time. Not then as it was then but then as it is now.
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