I wrote a story – one of my better fiction pieces – at the tail end of this summer, a good part of it on my peaceful vacation. For such a tale of loathing and decay, it was paradoxically perfect to write it in amid the cool night breeze of Long Beach Island.

The story itself is a horror story based off the testimony of the man who was videotaped below.

But it’s not the big story that everyone always asks this Survivor about. Hollywood came calling at one point in the 1980s, and he wrote several books about the only successful uprising during the Holocaust – the tale of the Sobibor escape. Thomas Blatt has continually told and re-told this story, and it’s an important one.

But a smaller, quieter story that slid by decades after the war really told me a lot more about the whole ordeal that was the 20th Century. Because in a short, seemingly innocent domestic encounter, all the hauntings of Europe and Asia which victimized millions is suddenly unveiled, like the pallid face of death emerging close from underneath a sheet in the blank dark of night, approaching the dreaming bed.

That may be overstating it – but I believe the story as I wrote it pretty much lays bare all my feelings on what is good writing (i.e., getting to the nuances of Existence and Life while maintaining a firm control on the universe at large, almost like a scientist poring through a microscope at the wrigglings of the characters.)

I believe Hemingway called them “epiphanies.” Burroughs I believe took the title of his most famous novel from noticing what is on the “end of every fork.” I call them “the turns.” Their terminology is a bit better, admittedly.

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