On the screen behind him, the succession of diagrams that had punctuated his speech stopped and was replaced by a brief and poignant documentary devoted to the mental -- and sometimes unbearable -- sufferings of Vietnam veterans. They couldn't forget, had nightmares every night, could no longer even drive or cross the street without assistance, they lived constantly in fear and it seemed impossible for them to re-adapt to a normal social life. It focused then on the case of a stooped, wrinkled man who had only a thin crown of dishevelled red hair and who seemed to be truly reduced to a wreck: he trembled constantly, could no longer leave his house and was in need of permanent medical assistance; and he suffered, suffered without end. In the cupboard of his dining room he kept a little jar, filled with soil from Vietnam; every time he opened the cupboard and took out the jar, he broke down in tears.

"Stop," said Knowall. "Stop." The image froze on the close-up of the old man in tears. "Stupidity," continued Knowall. "Complete and utter stupidity. The first thing this man should do is take his bottle of Vietnamese soil and throw it out of the window. Every time he opens the cupboard, every time he takes out the bottle -- and sometimes he does it up to fifty times a day -- he reinforces the neuro-circuit, and condemns himself to suffer a little more. Similarly, every time that we dwell on the past, that we return to a painful episode -- and this is more or less what psychoanalysis boils down to -- we increase the chances of reproducing it. Instead of advancing, we bury ourselves. Whenever we experience sadness, disappointment, something that prevents us from living, we must start by moving out, burning photos, avoiding talking to anyone about it. Repressed memories disappear; this can take some time, but they disappear in the end. The circuit deactivates itself." -- p.82-83, Michel Houellebecq: The Possibility of an Island.

Almost everyone holds on to painful memories and experiences. It's as if they have decided that these events should define their existence. The example of the Vietnam veteran is extreme, but I know of people who will almost eagerly recall some earlier, negative event in their lives in order to put the brakes on any present happiness or cause for optimism. They want others to know of their hurt and to feel sorry for them. But to what avail? Compared to survivors of Auschwitz -- many of whom have successfully "deactivated the circuit" of essence-thwarting pain while, at the same time, never forgetting -- these people are wilfully making their lives a misery.

I'm not speaking of "avoiding," but of simply letting those moments go, of consigning them to their place in the personal history along with everything else that happened. Of removing their power to destroy the present. Because the present is all we have. There is nothing we can act on in the past or in the future. We can plan for the future, of course, but it is never now. There is nothing we can actually make of it until it arrives. But now, this moment, we can do what we will. And there is no reason why what happened once upon a time should reduce our capacity to do, now, what we will.

Like everyone, I surround myself with mementos of the past -- photos, music, movies, heart-wrenching souvenirs of wonderful times. Mostly I value them, but essentially they are a burden. I allow them to define me; ultimately they confine me. I also have one or two "jars in the cupboard". Nothing as terminal to my well-being as the Vet's jar, but if I chose, I could let them fester and turn me into bitter man. I do not choose.

Deactivating the negative circuits are easy for some, nearly impossible for others. Yet, once faced consciously, brought into the light of glorious day, the task must surely be possible.

The real test of courage is to simply walk away from all that wonderful detritus that defines a life. The problem is, most us don't want freedom, we just want security. And then we die.

-- Olney Garkle