Stories are not the truth. Stories get honed over time, losing truth like a wooden figure loses the wooden block that held them. The story depends on the person wielding the chisel as much as the wood, of course. You start out wanting to get to the truth and end up lost in an extended metaphor about whittling. 

Doesn’t that prove my point? 

Stories get practised, condensed, made more streamlined for the telling. And how well the story is received over time ends up influencing which features get emphasised and which get dropped altogether. Stories are like jokes, in other words. The punchline is supposed to be some great insight, some cute revelation, but really ends up a travesty of justice. Something big happens and everyone sees it differently. Me? I might highlight the colour blue. Someone else drags in yet another fishing reference. The only way to get to the real truth is to throw all the stories in a blender, pulse-blitz for a minute, then push the mess through a sieve. Boil this off till you’re left with a residue you can dessicate, purify and then pound into a fine powder. Then snort. Feeling dizzy? Euphoric? 

Push on. 

You’re close.