ON ACTING: I Return Less Certain

I have just finally finished a memoir about the summer of 1957 when I hitchhiked around the country by thumb (causing my absence from this column).

Since then I have asked myself a series of questions:

Where does memory end, and imagination begin?
Where does fact end; and fantasy begin?
Where does the truth end; and lies begin?
Where does science end; and art begin?
Where does reason end; and passion begin?
Where does reality end; and creativity begin?

Perhaps there is no fixed demarcation line in any of this.
Memory is a constant interface with fluid imagination.
Thinking is a twisting symbiotic process subject to
of Einstein's relativity as emotional truth wrestles with the human obsession for certainty.

What is more valuable?: the definitive facts of what was, or the certainty of what one feels about those facts? The artist argues that facts should be allowed to transform under emotions' flood to new facts, better facts, more true facts.

The artist's chore is not to reconcile dichotomies, but to embrace them.
As Whitman said "Do I contradict my self? Oh, I contradict myself; I contain multitudes."