ABSTRACT
Often when we think of our lives, we look back at the chronological progression and feel a bit of security in knowing that, in retrospect, we can understand the events of our past. First this happened, and then this, and then that, and there you have it. Memory can be like a bookshelf; everything on it is neatly stacked and arranged and in control. We can scan the familiar contents and reassure ourselves that all of the events are in the same neat order as when we reviewed them last. Yet the past is not always such a submissive creature. It scurries out of its assigned place and intrudes on the present like a hamster that won't stay in its cage. It forces the nice, neat chronology of our lives to break down and seem almost irrelevant. Any parent who has grown angry over a child's mistake that echoes a past mistake of the parent's knows this process all too well. So does the person who sees a stranger's face in a crowd that sparks a memory and a sudden upsurge of long-forgotten feelings.
