When you are in the middle of a story, it isn't a story at all, but only
a confusion;
a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and
splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids and ail aboard
powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a
story at all, when you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.
Margaret
Attwood, Alias Grâce, 1999
