The work of a writer constitutes a body.
The legacy of a community constitutes its historical body.
As objects, our literature is embodied in books as metaphors for our bodies.
I approached this vandalized book as I approached a wounded body. Whoever slashed
this book was subliminally slashing a human body, our collective bodies: wishing them
hurt, dead, trashed, vanished.
It took a lot of hate to do this in secret.
Therefore, I did not want to hide this.
I wanted it exposed, forever known.
Some wounds should remain open
until the world changes.
The choice of real bandages from my bathroom cabinet is symbolic. Bandages are as
fragile as the wounds they attempt to help heal. And they fall off to reveal scars.
These bandages may fall, and the book may be broken again.
Unlike a real body, this book does not heal.
Another copy may replace this one, if there is funding.
But this broken book refuses to go away. This book remains forever cut and bandaged,
reminding us of the need to continue transforming hate into understanding.
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