America is born continuously out of a sense of obscured corruption. We are never old, but we carry the ancient guilt. Maddened by it, continuously repeating these same sins, we cannot bear to live within our memory. Vietnam is not merely forgotten. It is over-written. It is re-imagined not as a mistake, but as prologue to further violence. We always recur to violence. At the margins we find a truer story. A story whispered by the angel of history (Benjamin). A gasp blowing backwards towards us from the future. By this strange misdirection we are led. An immortal breath which we mistake for our own.
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