For my storyteller friend, the Satyr’s wife.

‘There are all kinds of stories. Some are born with the telling; their substance is language, and before someone puts them into words they are but a hint of an emotion, a caprice of mind, an image or an intangible recollection.

Others are manifest whole, like an apple, and can be repeated infinitely without risk of altering their meaning. Some are taken from reality and processed through inspiration, while others rise up from an instant of inspiration and become real after being told.

And there are secret stories that remain hidden in the shadows of the mind; they are like living organisms, they grow roots, and tentacles, they become covered with excrescences and parasites, and with time are transformed into the matter of nightmares.

To exorcize the demons of memory, it is sometimes necessary to tell them as a story.’