Sammy spoke today with fond memory of a comment he had written on a blog. He sent the comment— it is so typically Sammy that I just have to post it here for posterity:
I burst forth. Not me the person, me the words you read here. What is at stake in the transcription of feelings/emotions in the form of a letter, a graph of any sort? Nothing short of translation. Not unlike a new language, beginning in the limited sense of unintelligibility between speakers of different languages, the translation repeats itself in interpretation and understanding. The problem of letter writing? What the other reads is not what you wish them to. I had a conversation with Allie yesterday. Not a vocal conversation, or even properly speaking, a text conversation, though it was textual. The trace? Nothing. Our memories. Divergent. A letter we may write each other in the future about such conversation? Different. Distant.
Truly. Me and not me simultaneously.