Life Is Not So Bad If You

George Smiles To Himself, With Entire Self-satisfaction. Yes, I Am Crazy, He Thinks. That Is My Secret; My Strength.

The Prefect Evening...lying Down On The Couch Beside The Bookcase And Reading Himself Sleepy...jim Lying Opposite Him At The Other End Of The Couch, Also Reading; The Two Of Them Absorbed In Their Books Yet So Completely Aware Of Each Other's Presence.

But Now Isn’t Simply Now. Now Is Also A Cold Reminder: One Whole Day Later Than Yesterday, One Year Later Than Last Year. Every Now Is Labeled With Its Date, Rendering All Past Nows Obsolete, Until — Later Of Sooner — Perhaps — No, Not Perhaps — Quite Certainly: It Will Come.

The Town Is An Advertisement For Itself; None Of Its Charms Are Left To The Visitor's Imagination.

Berlin Is A Skeleton Which Aches In The Cold: It Is My Own Skeleton Aching. I Feel In My Bones The Sharp Ache Of The Frost In The Girders Of The Overhead Railway, In The Iron-work Of Balconies, In Bridges, Tramlines, Lamp-standards, Latrines. The Iron Throbs And Shrinks, The Stone And The Bricks Ache Dully, The Plaster Is Numb.