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The 110 photos in the book not only document for all time the tragedy that brought the towers down, but also celebrate the buildings with extraordinarily beautiful images taken of them over the last twenty seven years. Twenty-two photographers are featured in the book including Frank Fournier, Lori Grinker, Annie Leibovitz, and David Burnett, accompanied by texts written by Jacques Menache, WTC architect Minoru Yamasaki, and a powerful essay by Nobel Laureate Toni Morrison. 11: WITNESSING THE WORLD TRADE CENTER 1974-2001 gives eloquent testimony to the disaster, but also functions as a tribute – memorializing the buildings that fell, and the lives that ended on September 11th. Contact Press Images has created an historic record to keep forever.
Some have God’s words; others have songs of comfort for the bereaved. If I can pluck courage here, I would like to speak directly to the dead--the September dead. Those children of ancestors born in every continent on the planet: Asia, Europe, Africa, the Americas ... ; born of ancestors who wore kilts, obis, saris, gèlès, wide straw hats, yarmulkes, goatskin, wooden shoes, feathers and cloths to cover their hair. But I would not say a word until I could set aside all I know or believe about nations, wars, leaders, the governed and ungovernable; all I suspect about armor and entrails. First I would freshen my tongue, abandon sentences crafted to know evil--wanton or studied; explosive or quietly sinister; whether born of a sated appetite or hunger; of vengeance or the simple compulsion to stand up before falling down. I would purge my language of hyperbole; of its eagerness to analyze the levels of wickedness; ranking them; calculating their higher or lower status among others of its kind.
Speaking of the broken and the dead is too difficult for a mouth full of blood. Too holy an act for impure thoughts. Because the dead are free, absolute; they cannot be seduced by blitz.
To speak to you, the dead of September, I must not claim false intimacy or summon an overheated heart glazed just in time for a camera. I must be steady and I must be clear, knowing all the time that I have nothing to say--no words stronger than the steel that pressed you into itself; no scripture older or more elegant than the ancient atoms you have become.
And I have nothing to give either--except this gesture, this thread thrown between your humanity and mine: I want to hold you in my arms and as your soul got shot of its box of flesh to understand, as you have done, the wit of eternity: its gift of unhinged release tearing through the darkness of its knell.
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