"Reflect, re-flex over it. About the attempt to become the same. This is how it is in the intimate journals we preserve, in the loose manuscripts that were found and in the enlines of the letters I know. And that I have taught me that I must forget my memory of her, Christa T. The color of the memory cheats.
Should we then give it for lost?
Well, I feel that she fades. In the town cemetery of her, she lies under the two bushes of hawthorn, dead by dead. What do you look for there? A meter of earth on top, then the sky of Mecklenburg, cries of larks in spring, summer storms, autumn storms, snow. She vanishes. No ear to listen to complaints, no eye to see tears, no mouth to answer reproaches. Complaints, tears and reproaches are left behind, useless. Definitely rejected, we seek consolation in oblivion to which it is called a souvenir. "
Christa Wolf.
