This is an impossible task—how can one transcribe such pretty stories of love, cut deep with terrible scenes of sex and death, of quiet contemplations in memory, of grief and guilt and the biological markings of intimacy—semen stains, fleshy fingers in mouths or along the notches of one’s spine—or of the quiet sadness after grotesque tragedies in war, of flowers cut down in bloom—a little girl’s immortalization in a diary, a little boy’s eyes filled with flies.