I'm always fascinated by the way memory diffuses fact.
Interpretation
Memory can alter our perceptions of past events, blending reality with interpretation.
Diane Sawyer highlights the intriguing relationship between memory and fact, suggesting that our recollections are often not accurate reflections of reality. Instead, memory can distort facts, leading to a complex interplay where subjective experiences shape and sometimes skew our understanding of what actually happened.
In practice
Discussing the reliability of eyewitness testimony in a legal setting.
I read once, which I loved so much, that this great physicist who won a Nobel Prize said that every day when he got home, his dad asked him not what he learned in school but his dad said, 'Did you ask any great questions today?' And I always thought, what a beautiful way to educate kids that we're excited by their questions, not by our answers and whether they can repeat our answers.
The Center for Public Integrity is the real thing. A group of dedicated people who remember that great journalism is about grit and guts and stamina and razor-sharp instincts. They are, thank heaven, here to stay.
I think the one lesson I have learned is that there is no substitute for paying attention.
If you're curious, you'll probably be a good journalist because we follow our curiosity like cats.
People assume you can't be shy and be on television. They're wrong.
Follow what you are genuinely passionate about and let that guide you to your destination.
[T]hough individual oppression may now and then proceed fro the courts of justice, the general liberty of the people can never be endangered from that quarter . . .
There is no life so humble that, if it be true and genuinely human and obedient to God, it may not hope to shed some of His light. There is no life so meager that the greatest and wisest of us can afford to despise it. We cannot know at what moment it may flash forth with the life of God.
...she needed to confirm its presence. Like the keeper of the lighthouse and the prisoner, she regarded it as a mooring, a checkpoint, some stable visual object that assured her that the world was still there; that this was like and not a dream. That she was alive somewhere, inside, which she acknowledged to be true only because a thing she knew intimately was out there, outside of herself.
To grow old is to grow common. Old age equalizes -- we are aware that what is happening to us has happened to untold numbers from the beginning of time. When we are young we act as if we were the first young people in the world.
Nothing looks so like innocence as an indiscretion.
I fear that, with our current veneration for the natural and the real, we have arrived at the opposite pole to all idealism, and have landed in the region of the waxworks.
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