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23 F Every day I followed the war. When Jay was over there I followed him, and when he was gone I followed the war. This need is what Z and I understood in each other. We had to seek the pictures out. The papers didn’t print them. Bodies in ice, waiting for burial, parents, children, organs skin had pulled back from. Slivers of glass lodged in the face. Doctors and nurses hung bags of blood and the beds kept filling . We had to seek all this out. In the papers instead we saw soldiers towering, the sand or city a backdrop. Once you saw the pictures there was no way not to do something. This is what I’ve always said. But almost everyone did nothing, it was that easy. So when I said this, people didn’t understand. They looked at me and had their opinions. They might claim we had something in common, so that they could say of me: this is right, this is wrong. But I lived somewhere else. I dug my hands into the ice, I heard the planes skimming 24 over. I heard the explosions, and that was enough. There was more than anyone could do. People clipped and bandaged. They filed papers for the dead. This wasn’t enough. That’s a simple feeling, I think, not hard to understand. ...
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