From Saints at the River:
Listening to Ben, you would have thought he'd gone through childhood with nothing worse happening to him than a stubbed toe. Someone who didn't know him well would say he was merely in denial, but I did know Ben well, and I knew the life he'd made for himself as a man. The early history of his life was like history written in chalk on a blackboard-something he could smudge and then erase through sheer good-heartedness.
But I wasn't like my brother. I couldn't let things go. I didn't even want to. Forgetting, like forgiving, only blurred things. Even Ben, for all his nostalgia, had put the whole width of the United States between him and South Carolina.