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Listening Is an Act of Love: A Celebration of American Life from the StoryCorps Project

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Dave Isay

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“I still think we need tricksters to tweak the nose of tyrants. I still think we need loving, inclusive, intersectional communities that can hold space for all those who lack such a thing, and embrace them in that held space and into community. I still think there will always be a part of me that feels like Nesi: too young, too inexperienced, too anxious while also wildly passionate, eager to help, and desperate to fulfill a purpose. And I still think stories are some of the best tools we have in the world to save each other, through joy, shared experience, human connection, and the healing power of art.”

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“It is always at this time, just before he slips into unconsciousness, when the voice comes to him: not as loud and snide and insistent as it once was, but still there, still hounding him from behind, still trying to drive him stumbling forward. Is this the best you can do? Tonight, for the first time in many, many years, Philip chooses not to ignore it: he answers. It is. It really is. Then say it, and shout down the darkness. 'It is," Philip whispers between clenched teeth as Alicia mumbles and stirs in her slumber. 'It is!”

InspiringMental IllnessRecoveryDoing Your BestDexter PalmerVersion ControlVoices Inside Your HeadGalvanizing
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“She hadn't gone back in time. The idea was silly. Or had she? Had she knocked on the door of her home to see a younger version of herself answer; had there been a mutual shock of recognition (as the younger Rebecca realized that, yes, her husband's work was due to be a success, that he was not wasting his time chasing rainbows and tilting at windmills); had she slipped her arm into that of her past self (feeling a slight electric tingle as skin touched skin and a taste in her mouth as if she'd touched a nine-volt battery to her tongue) and said, We need to to talk? Had she sat in a coffee shop, conversing with a woman who everyone assumed was related to her in some way—Oh my god you two are so cute, you're mother and daughter but you look like sisters? Had she made some kind of idle remark overheard by a man on his way to spend two weeks' vacation in North Dakota; had that comment convinced that man to settle there permanently instead, and to contact those who had political sympathies similar to his own? Had that unknown man begun the slow process of taking over the state by placing his allies in the local governments if he could? Had that strategy failed, leaving brute force as a regrettable last resort?”

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“Her voice never stops: even when I sleep, it is a shining silver thread running through most of my dreams and all my nightmares, whispering, beseeching, threatening: One word from you is all I want. Just speak one word, and we'll begin. Name, rank, and serial number, perhaps the misquoted lyrics from a popular song: anything will do. From there we'll move with slow cautious steps to gentle verbal sparring, twice-told tales, descriptions of the scarred and darkest places of our old and worn-out souls. I'll love you back; I'll tell you secrets—”

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“It seems strange and inaccurate, when writing of what oneself once was, to speak of oneself as 'I,' especially when I find it difficult to own up to some of the actions performed by the people I once was . . . the only way to make sense of our existences is to set the stories of our lives down on paper, to try to make one tale that shows how the twentieth century turned Harold Winslow into Harold Winslow into Harold Winslow into me.”

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“The device,' Philip said. 'What are you going to do with it?' 'I know how this sounds. But you'll have to trust us. We'll take possession of it. We're going to dismantle it; when we do so, the wormhole will close, making this the final version of history we live through. Then we're going to box up the device and forget about it. Lose it somewhere; burn the records. It'll end up in a warehouse right next to the Ark of Covenant.”

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