Eternity Is Said Not To Be An

I Could Have Waited Years, Now That I Knew The End Of The Story. I Was Cold And Wet And Very Happy. I Could Even Look With Charity Towards The Altar And The Figure Dangling There. She Loves Us Both, I Thought, But If There Is To Be A Conflict Between An Image And A Man, I Know Who Will Win. I Could Put My Hand On Her Thigh Or My Mouth On Her Breast; He Was Imprisoned Behind The Altar And Couldn't Move To Plead His Cause.

Time Has Its Revenges, But Revenge Seems So Often Sour. Wouldn’t We All Do Better Not Trying To Understand, Accepting The Fact That No Human Being Will Ever Understand Another, Not A Wife With A Husband, Nor A Parent A Child? Perhaps That’s Why Men Have Invented God – A Being Capable Of Understanding.

When I Replied That I Loved Her Too In That Way, I Was The Liar, Not She, For I Never Lose The Consciousness Of Time: To Me The Present Is Never Here: It Is Always Last Year Or Next Week.

Tea At College Was Served On Long Tables With An Urn At The End Of Each. Long Baguettes Of Bread, Three To A Table, Were Set Out With Meagre Portions Of Butter And Jam; The China Was Coarse To Withstand The Schoolboy-clutch And The Tea Strong. At The Hôtel De Paris I Was Astonished At The Fragility Of The Cups, The Silver Teapot, The Little Triangular Savoury Sandwiches, The éclairs Stuffed With Cream.

We Remember The Details Of Our Story, We Do Not Invent Them.