We are all joined in a circle of stories.

Stories are like spiders, with all they long legs, and stories are like spiderwebs, which man gets himself all tangled up in but which look pretty when you see them under a leaf in the morning dew, and in the elegant way that they connect to one another, each to each.

By Aladdin's lamplit scrotum, man! Everything is a story. What is there but stories? Stories are the only truth.

A story has its purpose and its path. It must be told correctly for it to be understood.

How could an alphabet—letters that didn't even mean anything by themselves—be important?
But it was important. Our stories, our names, our alphabet. Even Uncle's newspaper.
It was all about words.
If words weren't important, they wouldn't try so hard to take them away.

. . .because we had survived
sisters and brothers, daughters and sons,
we discovered bones that rose
from the dark earth and sang
as white birds in the trees

Because the story of our life
becomes our life

Because each of us tells the same story
but tells it differently
and none of us tells it the same way twice . . (from, Why We Tell Stories)