The fiction this week in The New Yorker was "Snapshot" by Don Delillo. It was a story about the moment when an estranged husband returns home covered in ash. It is the moment he is in the hospital and they are discussing how there are fewer survivors than they expected. It is the conversation when the philandering husband explains why he came home to his wife and not his girlfriend. Their son watches for planes to hit other buildings.

Clearly Mr. Delillo hit upon the idea of a snapshot, how certain moments are like snapshots, and they exist forever in our mind.

I am still coming to grips with the use of September 11th being used as a plot device. I do not object to it, instead, I seem to be able to watch it from afar. First there was "With their Eyes," a collection of monologues students did at Stuyvesant about September 11th. It was published and preformed in other high schools. Then there were the reality movies. The ones that push the "how far can we go" and the made for TV specials about heroes and their stories. Now there are blockbusters and short stories.

Freud writes about the collective memories. I can't remember if he says he believes in it or not, but the collective memory contains the memories we all have, and the beliefs. September 11th has entered into the collective memory. Due to it's nature, and emotional impact, which I am not trying to detract from, there is an endless amount of material that can be mined that we can all relate too.

Perhaps, though, the use of September 11th is the equivalent of poking a bruise to see if it still hurts. Because sometimes you want it to still hurt to know that you are alive.