In order to record a tale, something must always be lost. Some things must be left unsaid and disguised. The art of storytelling, his brother said, is all about where and how to leave the voids.

It is easy to forget, but stories need not always have a purpose. We are quick to say that folktales have a moral or a lesson or a creed. But most of the stories that have survived the ages are told for one purpose only, and that purpose is to say this: “Being human is difficult. Here is some evidence.”

The tale comes easy and I realize that in crafting this narrative, I am a manager of fear.

Every tale that lasts is real, even if it’s not true.

That he has used a tense that designates the future means it will haunt better, more effectively. I once told him that strong stories link risk and desire.

Instead of permitting the stories to bend and fold with each new teller, the scripts are like coffins that calcify the tales.

Like a fairy tale, she softens the horror so that it can be fully faced.

part of invention is a bloated faith in the self. Part of creation, she thinks, slicing the bread, is making believe.

Is there a way to tell that pays credence to the voices that carried the story?