The things that slip beneath the sanctioned story.

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What enters a child’s body before she has language for power. What remains decades after an apparently insignificant sentence has been spoken. What desire remembers after morality, biography and good sense have rearranged the evidence. What grief does underground. What we project onto lovers, strangers, leaders, machines and gods. What happens when a private wound finds its echo in a public moment—and suddenly neither can be understood without the other.

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Much of a human life is lived there.

So, I suspect, is much of  history.

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We like to imagine that we know why we do what we do. That our convictions begin as thoughts. That societies move because people have reasoned themselves into positions. But beneath the articulate world is another field entirely: inheritance, longing, fear, shame, archetype, appetite, memory, belonging, exclusion, eros, mortality—the ancient and often contradictory material moving through the body long before it calls itself an idea.

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That territory has occupied me for most of my life, and not because I believe that everything hidden need be exposed so much as because what remains unexamined does not remain inactive. 

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They enter into our marriages and our wars; our classrooms and our politics; our technologies and our spiritualities.

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