“Poets loved the full moon, they wrote thousands of poems about it, but it was the new moon that Veronika loved best because there was still room for it to grow, to expand, to fill the whole of its surface with light before it’s inevitable decline.”
Şair Simon Brisenden (1987) pek çok engelli insanın geleneksel tıp'tan dışlanma anlayışını 'Mükemmel İnsanlar İçin Şiirler - Poems for Perfect People' adlı kitabında çok güzel bir şekilde özetlemektedir. Brisenden, ‘Yara İzleri’ adlı şiirinde sormaktadır: ‘Derini kesen adam / ve içini araştıran / onda herhangi bir dikiş izi var mı?’
“It is a crime,” he says, “that women are not taught the same as men. Why, a world without reading, I cannot fathom it. A whole long life without poems, or plays, or philosophers. Shakespeare, Socrates, to say nothing of Descartes!”
What she needs are stories. Stories are a way to preserve one’s self. To be remembered. And to forget. Stories come in so many forms: in charcoal, and in song, in paintings, poems, films. And books. Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.