Memory is strange. Scientifically, it is not a mechanical means of repeating something. I can think a thousand times about when I broke my leg at the age of ten, but it is never the same thing which comes to mind when I think about it. My memory of this event has never been, in reality, anything except the memory of my last memory of that event. This is why I use the image of a palimpsest – something written over something partially erased – that is what memory is for me. It’s not a film you play back in exactly the same way. It’s like theater, with characters who appear from time to time.
