"My recollections had a kind of intensity which betrayed the way that imagination and memory had fused, which is what happens, with our earliest memories-particularly when they concern places and people we can't revisit, times and realms left behind. My family left Tennessee, one of the many places we would leave, when I had just turned seven years old, and so everything about that life remained for me sealed away, as if in a sphere of its own, a set of memories and impressions unrevised by experience, uncorrected by time.
Unrevised? Well, in a
way. Ask someone who's lived in the same house all of his [or her] life
what that house is like, and you'll get the adult's perspective, the
point of view of now. But when you've left a house years ago, it only
changes in your memory, and those changes are different-subtler,
dreamier, [...] Memory erases the rooms which didn't matter; locations of
feeling become intensified, larger. The dream of the past becomes a