“Or maybe the ... shock of it started me covering up all kinds of memories the way a squirrel hides a nut and forgets where he's buried it.”
“Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.”
“Whenever he looks at me with those big brown eyes, I feel like giving him a nut,” she said. She even started calling the squirrels running around in the park Mr. Whitmans.”
“No one ever forgets where he buried the hatchet.”
“IT happened. There is no avoiding it, no forgetting. No running away, or flying, or burying, or hiding.”
“Maybe Cubism started this way. Memory re-arranging a face.”