Had I been given the chance, perhaps I would have blown the country to bits, so that mothers would no longer cry over the seventeen year-old sons and daughters who died on the barricades, so that the grass would no longer grow over the ashes of Treblinka and Majdanek and Auschwitz, so that the notes of a harmonica played under the nightmarish pits and dunes of the city outskirts. Because there is a kind of pity that is unbearable. And so one blows it all up, at least in one’s mind; that is, one is possessed by a single desire: not to look.


  1. Native Realm