I write at the point where memory starts arguing with itself. For centuries I have carried a vindictive impulse, and for just as long a stubborn human heart that refuses to let it win the argument.

A thought does not need to be tidy before it is worth writing down. I started these pages to keep a plain record of old hurts and how they change shape when looked at long enough, and I have kept them honest by refusing polish.

Literature, solitude and the long hours of night are the things I return to most. I read slowly, walk when I cannot sleep, and let memory do its quiet, unreliable work on the page.

My philosophy is simple. Vengeance is an old appetite and mercy is a stubborn one; I write to see which of them is speaking, and to let the human part of me have the final sentence when it has earned it.