Scar Island Quotes

But as the years passed, he missed her more, not less, and his need for her became a cut that would not scar over, would not stop leaking.

He only wishes there were something that would heal the scars in his mind, which he can still feel. He sees his mind now as an archipelago of islands that he labors to build bridges between - and while he's had great success engineering the most spectacular of bridges, he suspects there are some islands that he'll never reach.

Men who believe that the way to the mind is not by way of ice picks through the brain or large dosages of dangerous medicine but through an honest reckoning of the self.

And you cannot leave a library. Without a book.

Always, you wake up to an unpleasant memory and an unpleasant body and your spirit is reduced to a pile of dirty ashes residing somewhere inside of your ass. You've gotta face the music, which is a beautiful island outside, but you can't even bear to look out the window.

But as the years passed, he missed her more not less, and his need for her became a cut that would not scar over, would not stop leaking.

He was his usual philosophic self and tried very hard to explain to me that although life was stained with agony, this was necessary. That scars only concealed, and finally helped to reveal, an essential peace. He said that what we, who pass so swiftly, experience as songs of love or cries of pain are only overtones to a single note in a very much larger harmony.

I fell indeed into a morbid state, deep and enduring, and alien to fear, which has left permanent scars upon my mind. I must confess that I lost faith in the sanity of the world when I saw it suffering the painful disorder of this island. A

heavy, nut-brown man; his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white.

tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white.

Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17—, and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof. I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow—a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards:

hand-barrow—a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white.

soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white.

No. You can't leave a library. Without a book.

He had showed me some of his damage. And he was ashamed of that. Little did he know, I wasn't someone who could judge. So what if he had anger issues? I had ripping myself open issues. And alcohol issues. And daddy issues. And brother issues. And grandmother issues. I was the Long Island iced tea of damage: everything but iced tea included.

First-generation immigrants... Both eternally grateful for the chances life has given them and scarred by what it has snatched away, always out of place, separated from others by some unspoken experience, like survivors of a car accident.

Alexander moved her off him, laid her down, was over her, was pressed into her, crushing her. Anthony was right there, he didn't care, he was trying to inhale her, trying to absorb her into himself. "All this time you were stepping out in front of me, Tatiana," he said. "Now I finally understand. You hid me on Bethel Island for eight months. For two years you hid me and deceived me - to save me. I am such an idiot," he whispered. "Wretch or not, ravaged or not, in a carapace or not, there you still were, stepping out for me, showing the mute mangled stranger your brave and indifferent face." Her eyes closed, her arms tightened around his neck. "That stranger is my life," she whispered. They crawled away from Anthony, from their only bed, onto a blanket on the floor, barricading themselves behind the table and chairs. "You left our boy to go find me, and this is what you found..." Alexander whispered, on top of her, pushing inside her, searching for peace. Crying out underneath him, Tatiana clutched his shoulders. "This is what you brought back from Sachsenhausen." his movement was tense, deep, needful. Oh God. Now there was comfort. "You thought you were bringing back him, but Tania, you brought back me." "Shura...you'll have to do..." Her fingers were clamped into his scars. "In you," said Alexander, lowering his lips to her parted mouth and cleaving their flesh, "are the answers to all things." All the rivers flowed into the sea and still the sea was not full.

Here on the island I find I can sit with a friend without talking, sharing the day's last sliver of pale green light on the horizon, or the whorls in a small white shell, or the dark scar left in a dazzling night sky by a shooting star. Then communication becomes communion and one is nourished as one never is by words.

What would a life be without wounds and scars?

So a child sobs in its heartbreak that seems so world filling, yet ends so quickly, though it may leave scars that are not of the flesh: scars that twist the self within.

Niccolo Machiavelli folded his arms across his chest and looked at the alchemyst. “I always knew we would meet again,” he said in French. “Though I never imagined it would be in these circumstances,” he added with a smile. “I was certain I’d get you in Paris last Saturday.” He bowed, an old-fashioned courtly gesture as Perenelle joined her husband. “Mistress Perenelle, it seems we are forever destined to meet on islands.” “The last time we met you had poisoned my husband and attempted to kill me,” Perenelle reminded him, speaking in Italian. Over three thousand years previously, the Sorceress and the Italian had fought at the foot of Mount Etna in Sicily. Although Perenelle had defeated Machiavelli, the energies they unleashed caused the ancient volcano to erupt. Lava flowed for five weeks after the battle and destroyed ten villages. “Forgive me. I was younger then, and foolish. And you emerged the victor of the encounter. I carry the scars to this day.” “Let us try and not blow up this island,” she said with a smile. Then she stretched out her hand. “I saw you try to save me earlier. There is no longer any enmity between us.” Machiavelli took her fingers in his and bent over them. “Thank you. That pleases me.

Rain pelted the huge windows. Thunder booms like cannon shots rattled the glass. The courtyard was a rain-lashed lake, reflecting the violent white cracks of lightning above. The wind shrieked between Slabhenge's tall towers like an army of furious ghosts.

They move with a slight ungainliness, not quite at ease in their surroundings. Both eternally grateful for the chances life has given them and scarred by what it has snatched away, always out of place, separated from others by some unspoken experience, like survivors of a car accident.

I am a lunatic. Not an idiot. I go at night. To the kitchen. It's been terribly messy." The librarian paused, working his fingers into Ninety-Nine's fur. Ninety-Nine closed his eyes and leaned back into the scratching finger. "And ice cream is my favourite food. It's kept. In the freezer. Of course.

Sky hummed a few bars, remembering the lilting, mournful notes. She hesitated, then haltingly began to sing: This song is from the crushed part of my heart. Sky`s voice, permantly scarred by the thornament she`d been forced to wear on warbler island as a child, was husky and pleasant, though it faltered with emotion now. She continued, half in a whisper as she trudged to the beat. The part that thrums reminders that you`re gone. I don't regret a moment of our days. But i won`t fall. I`ll be okay, you know. I`ve always been that way. As much as I wish you back with me, I`m still the same. My dreams remain. I don`t need a soul to know my name. And I`ll get on just fine- I always do. Alone and away. Alone and away.

I realized that my jaws were locked, teeth clenched, my eyes wide, and from the light-headedness, I imagined I must look frightfully pale. And I was holding my breath, resisting life so I could resist change from happening. I had so much fear in me. Fear that in this change my home would disappear. I had grown up under the memory of my brother's stories of home, and in the twelve years that had passed without him, I realized that I had been waiting, that I had never truly left Heuksan Island. The home Brother had told me about, I had dreamed of arriving there one day. A home where there was no more sorrow or tears, no more deaths or farewells. A place of togetherness. But now this place would change into a haunted mansion full of strangers and ghosts. How could I embrace them? What did family mean when family had gone away and returned, scarred to the point of being unrecognizable? How could you embrace a stranger with haunted eyes that looked right through you?

We went into a small, windowless office crowded between two others that appeared empty. A middle-aged American woman was seated behind a metal desk. She appeared normal and reasonably attractive until she spoke; then her scarred gums showed that she had once had two or three times the proper number of teeth—forty or fifty, I suppose, in each jaw—and that the dental surgeon who had extracted the supernumerary ones had not always, perhaps, selected those he suffered to remain as wisely as he might.

First-generation immigrants are a species all their own. They wear a lot of beige, grey or brown. Colours that do not stand out. Colours that whisper, never shout. There is a tendency to formality in their mannerisms, a wish to be treated with dignity. They move with a slight ungainliness, not quite at ease in their surroundings. Both eternally grateful for the chances life has given them and scarred by what it has snatched away, always out of place, separated from others by some unspoken experience, like survivors of a car accident.

The vendor looked at him through narrow eyes. “What is your name, what is your island, and what is your dance?” The questions shocked him through to the core. It took him a moment to pull up the traditional answers. “I am Cliopher Mdang of Tahivoa in Gorjo City. My island is Loaloa.” He paused a moment, before the desire for it to be true overcame the fear that he overreached himself in the claim. His third answer came, as a result, much more quietly. “My dance is Aōteketētana.” “Where have you danced the fire?” These were the questions out of the Lays of the Wide Seas. Cliopher had been expecting to haggle over price, not his identity. He took a breath. No one was listening to him but the vendor. “I learned the steps on Loaloa from the direction of the tanà, my great-uncle Tovo. My feet bear the scars of my learning.” He gestured down, though the old burns on the sides of his feet, where he had brushed up against the coals, were hidden by his Solaaran-style sandals. “And I danced the fire across the Wide Seas when I sailed down the river of time in a ship of my own hands’ shaping.

Look," she said "I dont want to talk about this. You must understand, whenever something terrible happens to a country - or an island - a chasm opens between those who go away and those who stay. I'm not saying it's easy for the people who left, I'm sure they have their own hardships, but they have no idea what it was like for the ones who stayed." "The ones who stayed dealt with the wounds and then the scars, and that must be extremely painful," said Kostas. "But for us ... runaways, you might call us ... we never have a chance to heal, the wounds always remain open.

It was a damned near-run thing, I must admit,' said Jack, modestly; then after a pause he laughed and said, 'I remember your using those very words in the old Bellerophon, before we had our battle.' 'So I did,' cried Dundas. 'So I did. Lord, that was a great while ago.' 'I still bear the scar,' said Jack. He pushed up his sleeve, and there on his brown forearm was a long white line. 'How it comes back,' said Dundas; and between them, drinking port, they retold the tale, with minute details coming fresh to their minds. As youngsters, under the charge of the gunner of the Bellerophon, 74, in the West Indies, they had played the same game. Jack, with his infernal luck, had won on that occasion too: Dundas claimed his revenge, and lost again, again on a throw of double six. Harsh words, such as cheat, liar, sodomite, booby and God-damned lubber flew about; and since fighting over a chest, the usual way of settling such disagreements in many ships, was strictly forbidden in the Bellemphon, it was agreed that as gentlemen could not possibly tolerate such language they should fight a duel. During the afternoon watch the first lieutenant, who dearly loved a white-scoured deck, found that the ship was almost out of the best kind of sand, and he sent Mr Aubrey away in the blue cutter to fetch some from an island at the convergence of two currents where the finest and most even grain was found. Mr Dundas accompanied him, carrying two newly sharpened cutlasses in a sailcloth parcel, and when the hands had been set to work with shovels the two little boys retired behind a dune, unwrapped the parcel, saluted gravely, and set about each other. Half a dozen passes, the blades clashing, and when Jack cried out 'Oh Hen, what have you done?' Dundas gazed for a moment at the spurting blood, burst into tears, whipped off his shirt and bound up the wound as best he could. When they crept aboard a most unfortunately idle, becalmed and staring Bellerophon, their explanations, widely different and in both cases so weak that they could not be attempted to be believed, were brushed aside, and their captain flogged them severely on the bare breech. 'How we howled,' said Dundas. 'You were shriller than I was,' said Jack. 'Very like a hyena.

What gets in the way of living with vitality," Tejpal asked. Everything, I thought to myself. "Wounds," Tejpal said. She talked about the importance of forgiveness, and how the most important step in forgiveness is to allow yourself to feel the pain of the hurt you received. Only then would the pain begin to heal. Suddenly, Dracula leaned forward and spoke up. Even though this wasn't really a situation where you were supposed to speak without being called on. "That's not true," she blurted out angrily, her Long Island accent pulling all her vowels downward. "There are some things people do that hurt you forever and that cause scars that will never heal. Just 'cause you think about them doesn't mean they're going away." All the women in the room turned around to stare at this angry person. This was supposed to be a touchy-feely, self-discovery happy place where Tejpal was in charge. You are not supposed to attack Tejpal. I sensed that people thought she was crazy and normally I would find her as annoying for not getting it as everyone else was, but instead I felt a wave of deep compassion. It was the first time during my visit to Miraval that I felt attuned to how deeply, painfully exposed people can allow themselves to be when there's even a sliver of permission to be honest.

As the men rode they saw for the first time the full grandeur of Hawaii, for they were to work on one of the fairest islands in the Pacific. To the left rose jagged and soaring mountains, clothed in perpetual green. Born millions of years before the other mountains of Hawaii, these had eroded first and now possessed unique forms that pleased the eye. At one point the wind had cut a complete tunnel through the highest mountain; at others the erosion of softer rock had left isolated spires of basalt standing like monitors. To the right unfolded a majestic shore, cut by deep bays and highlighted by a rolling surf that broke endlessly upon dark rocks and brilliant white sand. Each mile disclosed to Kamejiro and his companions some striking new scene. But most memorable of all he saw that day was the red earth. Down millions of years the volcanic eruptions of Kauai had spewed forth layers of iron-rich rocks, and for subsequent millions of years this iron had slowly, imperceptibly disintegrated until it now stood like gigantic piles of scintillating rust, the famous red earth of Kauai. Sometimes a green-clad mountain would show a gaping scar where the side of a cliff had fallen away, disclosing earth as red as new blood. At other times the fields along which the men rode would be an unblemished furnace-red, as if flame had just left it. Again in some deep valley where small amounts of black earth had intruded, the resulting red nearly resembled a brick color. But always the soil was red. It shone in a hundred different hues, but it was loveliest when it stood out against the rich green verdure of the island, for then the two colors complemented each other, and Kauai seemed to merit the name by which it was affectionately known: the Garden Island.

Jonathan crouched on his hands and knees, panting in the blackness. He'd never seen such darkness before, total and suffocating. Down in the deepest dungeon, pinned beneath a prison of dark stone, there was hardly even the memory of light. His eyes gasped like the mouth of a fish yanked out of the water They found no light to breathe.

And below them, a hungry menace knocked at an ancient door. And even then, surrounded by friendly faces, his dark fears whispered at him, and the flickering warmth of their candles' light seemed terribly small and fragile.

And those sounds you hear? That is the sea, crashing and surging beneath us. Sucking at forgotten windows. Opening and closing submerged doors. Tossing old furniture around. Rattling old chains. Chewing at the foundations. And always, knocking at the door.

Get used to it. I want ye to claim me, loudly and to anyone who’ll listen. That shite is hot as fuck.

If I die, and the last sight I have is of your body, my afterlife will be spent jerking off over ye.

But just as I finished, Camden lurched dramatically and dropped to lie flat on his back at my feet. “Ohmigod. Are you okay?” I stooped beside him, my heart speeding. “That was just me falling for ye.

They did not look behind, to where Sharr wavered, a scourge on Arawiya’s map, a place of shadow and death. They had lived in the past for far too long. Yet Nasir would always carry a souvenir of the island in his soul, another scar to mark his suffering.

No matter my shape, I wear my dresses. I don’t let my dresses wear me.” I also thought it to be the same for scars. After all, there were only ever two options. We could either wear our scars with dignity to tell the world where we’d come from and that we survived, or let these heavy things wear us.

Some emotional scars hurt more than others. They eat into one’s soul and will never fully heal. Perhaps the scars are too deep by nature, or people who slashed at one’s heart are too dear.

You must understand, whenever something terrible happens to a country- or an island a chasm opens between those who go away and those who stay. I'm not saying it's easy for the people who left, I'm sure they have their own hardships, but they have no idea what it was like for the ones who stayed." "The ones who stayed dealt with the wounds and then the scars, and that must be extremely painful, said Kostas. "But for us... runaways, you might call us... we never have a chance to heal, the wounds always remain open.

Are all your exes psychotic?” She raised her brows, folding her arms on her chest. “Was she crazy before or after you got with her?” She leaned back on the island getting a better view of his face. Lord, the man was fucking gorgeous. Not in the clean cut sort of way. He had the whole fuck rough, dirty, and make you sweat thing going. A deep scar was etched down his cheek into his day’s old beard growth. She licked her lips and glanced down his massive frame. “Sex can make women insane.

cigarette. They floated in the middle of the tropical green ocean with the islands in view. The water was doing something to Tatiana. It was dismantling her. With every flutter of the water she saw the Neva, the River Neva under the northern sun on the sub-Arctic white night city they once called home, the water rippled and in it was Leningrad, and in Leningrad was everything she wanted to remember and everything she wanted to forget. He was gazing at her. His eyes occasionally softened under the sticky Coconut Grove sun. “You’ve got new freckles, above your eyebrows.” He kissed her eyelids. “Golden, soft hair, ocean eyes.” He stroked her face, her cheeks. “Your scar is almost gone. Just a thin white line now. Can barely see it.” The scar she got escaping from the Soviet Union. “Hmm.” “Unlike mine?” “You have more to heal, husband.” Reaching out, she placed her hand on Alexander’s face and then closed her eyes quickly so he couldn’t pry inside her. “Tatiasha,” he called in a whisper, and then bent to her and kissed her long and true. It had been a year since she had found him shackled in Sachsenhausen’s isolation chamber. A year since she dredged him up from the bottomdwellers of Soviet-occupied Germany, from the grasping hands of Stalin’s henchmen. How could it have been a year? How long did it seem? An eternity in purgatory, a hemidemisemiquaver in heaven.

There is a certain new ferocity in her eyes now. A certain new thing that was not there before. I recognize it as scar tissue. When a bone breaks, it heals stronger in the cracks. I realize this is what is happening to her heart.

It isn’t so terrible. You did a good job of stitching.” She continued to examine his work. “There will be a scar, of course, but not much of one I think.” “I regret there will be any,” he said gruffly. With a fresh length of cloth, he rebandaged her arm. By the time he was done, she felt oddly shaky yet unwilling to move away from him. He dropped his hands but continued standing very close to her, so near that she could feel the warmth of his body. She tried not to stare at his chest but that left her to focus on the powerful column of his throat and above to the chiseled line of his jaw, which appeared to be clenched. “This may not have been a good idea,” he murmured. Their eyes met. Her toes curled, as though they clung to the very edge of a precipice. On a thread of sound, she said, “Which part? My coming to London, trying to see you, stowing away, getting hurt? Or perhaps we can say it was not a good idea for Royce to set out for Akora to begin with? We could lay all this at his door.” Alex tried very hard not to smile. She watched the struggle he waged and knew the moment he lost. His grin, for all that it was reluctant, was also quite devastating. She wondered if he knew it. Quietly, he said, “It seems we will have to find your brother and tell him how badly he has behaved.” “Now that is a very good idea.

Jonathan Grisby,” the Admiral finally said. He said Jonathan’s name the way most people might say the word diarrhea.

She appeared normal and reasonably attractive until she spoke; then her scarred gums showed that she had once had two or three times the proper number of teeth—forty or fifty, I suppose, in each jaw—and that

Alderheart looked up at the clear, black sky. He narrowed his eyes against the brightness of the moon. Countless stars glittered above the island. For the first time in days, his fur was dry, and a warm wind promised newleaf once more. The island clearing was crowded. Across the sea of pelts, Alderheart could see Twigbranch and Violetshine sitting with Hawkwing, Tree, and Finleap. Their eyes were round and their fur fluffed. They were clearly happy to be reunited. He whispered in Jayfeather’s ear, “It looks like every cat has come.” Jayfeather grunted. “After what we’ve been through, who would be mouse-brained enough to miss this Gathering?” Alderheart purred softly. Tigerstar had called the emergency Gathering when SkyClan arrived in his camp. Now the Clans looked up at the Great Oak, where Bramblestar, Harestar, Tigerstar, Mistystar, and Leafstar sat side by side on the lowest branch. Their deputies sat below them on the roots. Only Juniperclaw was missing. Alderheart felt a pang. He knew he’d been right to speak out, but he wished his investigation hadn’t ended in Juniperclaw’s death. As Puddleshine shifted beside him, Alderheart blinked at him warmly. The tom’s fur was sleek once more. His scars were hidden beneath his thick pelt. His eyes were bright, and he was staring eagerly at the Great Oak. Tigerstar got to his paws and looked around at the gathered cats. “We come to speak of change,” he meowed. “Change that must come if the Clans are to survive. But first I have news of Juniperclaw. Many of you will know that he is dead. But you may not know the whole story. Juniperclaw admitted to poisoning the SkyClan fresh-kill pile. He saw an easy way to drive SkyClan from the lake and he chose to go through with it, even though he knew he was breaking the warrior code. He believed he could protect his Clan best by saving us from fighting for our land. But a Clan that won’t fight for their land when they have to is no Clan at all. And Juniperclaw paid dearly for his crime. He lost his deputyship and his life.” The Clans watched him in silence as he went on. “But he died a courageous death. He died saving lives. Shadowkit was caught in the flood on RiverClan land. Juniperclaw pushed him from the water before being swept into the lake. He could have saved himself, but he chose to help Violetshine get out of the flood. He saved the SkyClan warrior, at the cost of his own life. I hope that he finds peace in StarClan.

When I was young, all the institutions were staffed with these Depression-scarred men—banks, utilities, railroads, most government bureaus, even letter-carriers. In many cases, they were overqualified for the work they performed and as a result the institutions tended to perform well. This is an aspect of the Truman-Eisenhower years—years that now seem islands of calm—that is overlooked.

When they approached him again, made to hit him, he called out, told them what they wanted to know, gave them names and places, fabricating if he had no answer. The scarred man smirked. “Is this a man? The Dictator will laugh when he hears that this thing is meant to be his enemy.

Coney Island isn’t where I’d choose to be, but whatever makes her happy. Where I’d choose to be, if I had a choice, is at a white house with a picket fence surrounding it… just not this one.

If he slipped and fell in, would I dive after him? Absolutely. That’s love, and I still love him. I always will love him. It shouldn’t be that way. Something as brief as our marriage should die like a roman candle. One blaze of glory, imprinted on the retina for a few moments and then fading. This wasn’t that. This was a flash fire, and I am scarred for life, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Something as brief as our marriage should die like a roman candle. One blaze of glory, imprinted on the retina for a few moments and then fading. This wasn’t that. This was a flash fire, and I am scarred for life, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

World History 101 - The Actual History History is not a record of truth, history is a record of triumph. The triumphant writes history as it fits their narrative - or to be more accurate, history is written by the conquerors for maintaining the supremacy of the conquerors, while the conquered lose everything. Let me give you an example. In a commendable endeavor of goodwill and reparations a descendant of the British conquerors, President Lyndon Johnson started Hispanic Heritage Week, which was later expanded into a month by another white descendant, President Ronald Reagan - fast forward to present time - during the Hispanic Heritage Month the entire North America tries to celebrate Native American history. But there is a glitch - Spanish is not even a Native American language. Native Americans did not even speak Spanish, until the brutes of Spain overran Puerto Rico like pest bearing disease and destruction, after a pathetic criminal called Columbus stumbled upon "La Isabela" in the 1500s. Many of the natives struggled till death to save their home - many were killed by the foreign diseases to which they had no immunity. Those who lived, every last trace of their identity was wiped out, by the all-powerful and glorious spanish colonizers - their language, their traditions, their heritage, everything - just like the Portuguese did in Brazil. The Spaniards would've done the same to Philippines on the other side of the globe, had they had the convenience to stay longer. Heck, even the name Philippines is not the original name - the original name of the islands was (probably) Maniolas, as referred to by Ptolemy. But when the Spaniard retards of the time set foot there, they named it after, then crown prince, later Philip II of Spain. Just reminiscing those abominable atrocities makes my blood boil, and yet somehow, the brutal "glory" of the conquerors lives on as such even in this day and age, as glory that is. That's why José Martí is so important, that's why Kwanzaa is so important, that's why Darna is so important - in the making of a world that has a place for every culture, not just the culture of the conquerors. No other "civilized" people have done more damage to the world than the Europeans, and yet, on the pages of history books their glory of conquest is still packaged as glory, not as atrocity. Why is that? I don't know the answer - do you? Trillions of dollars, pounds and euros in aid won't suffice to undo the damage - but what just might heal those wounds from the past, is if the offspring of the oppressors and the offspring of the oppressed, both hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder, unravel the history as it happened, not as it was presented - what just might heal the scars of yesterday, is if together we come forward to learn about each other's past, so that for the first time in history, we can actually write "human history", not the "conquerors' history" - so that for the first time ever, we write history not as conquerors and conquered, not as oppressors and oppressed, but as one species - as one humankind.

what about scars?” Edward asked. “What about broken bones? Your creations don’t show any signs of surgery.” “A happy accident of my banishment. The island’s isolation means there is almost no disease here. A body can heal in a matter of days if there is no risk of infection. Quite remarkable. I daresay many of my attempts in London failed solely from the polluted city air.

Been there, done that, had the emotional scars to show for it. Do not repeat was her mantra where men in that industry were concerned.

she was medevaced to Hillside Hospital in Long Island. “When I arrived at Hillside they were absolutely horrified. They had never seen anything like it,” she says. “I had open sores all over my body from the beatings. Bruising everywhere. I have a scar on my right buttock that never went away. I had to be taught how to speak and feed myself in a strait jacket for three months until I was well enough or sane enough to leave Hillside.

Way too often, the first generation of survivors, the ones who had suffered the most, kept their pain close to the surface, memories like splinters lodged under their skin, some protruding, others completely invisible to the eye. Meanwhile, the second generation chose to suppress the past, both what they knew and did not know of it. In contrast, the third generation were eager to dig away and unearth silences. How strange that in families scarred by wars, forced displacements and acts of brutality, it was the youngest who seemed to have the oldest memory.