ONE NIGHT I DREAMED I WAS IN A WARM AND COZY ROOM THAT INVITED A PEACEFUL AFTERNOON OF READING. THERE WAS BEAUTIFUL WALLPAPER ON THE WALLS; EVERYTHING WAS GAILY COLORED. I MOVED CLOSER TO LOOK AT THE CHEERFUL PATTERNS DECORATING EVERYTHING: THEY WERE ALL SCENES OF VIOLENCE AND DESTRUCTION. I HAD ALREADY SEEN THEM ALL IN NEWSPAPERS OR ON TELEVISION, IN THAT DELUGE OF IMAGES OF WORLD TRAGEDIES THAT RAINS DOWN ON US EVERY DAY AND TO WHICH WE ARE NOW SO ACCUSTOMED THAT WE DEVOTE LITTLE MORE THAN A DISTRACTED GLANCE TO THEM. THOSE IMAGES HAD SETTLED ONE ON TOP OF THE OTHER ON THE WALLS OF THE ROOM OF MY MEMORY: THAT WAS WHERE I WAS, AND IT WAS THERE THAT I WENT, LIKE AN ARCHAEOLOGIST, TO BRING THEM BACK TO LIGHT, TO RESTORE THE POWER OF THEIR STORY THAT WOULD HAVE TOUCHED ME HAD I NOT BEEN SO DISTRACTED.