Fragments...
I've recently found myself rereading one of my favorite short stories, only to find its meaning even more poignant. That story is a simple 7-page story (the first ever published) by William Gibson, called "Fragments of a Hologram Rose." It's strange how when you first read some stories, you only remember the parts that catch you while the rest fades away until it is read again. Today, the rest of the story stared back at me, effecting an unexpected affect, yet my favorite part still remains.
These are its fragments.
"Parker lies in darkness, recalling the thousand fragments of the hologram rose. A hologram has this quality: Recovered and illuminated, each fragment will reveal the whole image of the rose. Falling toward delta, he felt himself the rose, each of his scattered fragments revealing a whole he'll never know...
"Thinking: We're each other's fragments, and was it always this way?...
"But each fragment reveals the rose from a different angle, he remembered, but delta swept over him before he could ask himself what that might mean."
These are its fragments.
"Parker lies in darkness, recalling the thousand fragments of the hologram rose. A hologram has this quality: Recovered and illuminated, each fragment will reveal the whole image of the rose. Falling toward delta, he felt himself the rose, each of his scattered fragments revealing a whole he'll never know...
"Thinking: We're each other's fragments, and was it always this way?...
"But each fragment reveals the rose from a different angle, he remembered, but delta swept over him before he could ask himself what that might mean."