It Was A Melancholy Secret That Reality

The Wisest Were Just The Poor And Simple People. They Knew The War To Be A Misfortune, Whereas Those Who Were Better Off, And Should Have Been Able To See More Clearly What The Consequences Would Be, Were Beside Themselves With Joy.

(ravic Speaking Of A Butterfly Caught In The Louvre) In The Morning It Would Search For Flowers And Life And The Light Honey Of Blossoms And Would Not Find Them And Later It Would Fall Asleep On Millennial Marble, Weakened By Then, Until The Grip Of The Delicate, Tenacious Feet Loosened And It Fell, A Thin Leaf Of Premature Autumn.

One Often Feels As Though Something Had Happened Before, I Remember. It Comes Quite Close To You And Stands There And You Know It Was Just This Way Once Before, Exactly So; For An Instant You Almost Know How It Must Go On, But Then It Disappears As You Try To Lay Hold Of It Like Smoke Or A Dead Memory. "we Could Never Remember, Isabelle," I Say. "it's Like The Rain. That Has Also Become One, Out Of Two Gasses, Oxygen And Hydrogen, Which No Longer Remember They Were Once Gasses. Now They Are Only Rain And Have No Memory Of An Earlier Time.

Yes, That's The Way They Think, These Hundred Thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth! Youth! We Are None Of Us More Than Twenty Years Old. But Young? That Is Long Ago. We Are Old Folk.

Suddenly I Become Filled With A Consuming Impatience To Be Gone.