Like Our Bodies And Like Our Desires,

There Is Something Peculiarly Dispriting About The Emptiness That Wells Up When, In A Strange City, One Dials The Same Telephone Numbers In Vain.

To Set One's Name To A Work Gives No One A Title To Be Remembered, For Who Knows How Many Of The Best Of Men Have Gone Without A Trace? The Iniquity Of Oblivion Blindly Scatters Her Poppyseed And When Wretchedness Falls Upon Us One Summer's Day Like Snow, All We Wish For Is To Be Forgotten.

I Suppose It Is Submerged Realities That Give To Dreams Their Curious Air Of Hyper-reality. But Perhaps There Is Something Else As Well, Something Nebulous, Gauze-like, Through Which Everything One Sees In A Dream Seems, Paradoxically, Much Clearer. A Pond Becomes A Lake, A Breeze Becomes A Storm, A Handful Of Dust Is A Desert, A Grain Of Sulphur In The Blood Is A Volcanic Inferno. What Manner Of Theater Is It, In Which We Are At Once Playwright, Actor, Stage Manager, Scene Painter And Audience?

At The Most We Gaze At It In Wonder, A Kind Of Wonder Which In Itself Is A Form Of Dawning Horror, For Somehow We Know By Instinct That Outsize Buildings Cast The Shadow Of Their Own Destruction Before Them, And Are Designed From The First With An Eye To Their Later Existence As Ruins.

It Seems To Me Then As If All The Moments Of Our Life Occupy The Same Space, As If Future Events Already Existed And Were Only Waiting For Us To Find Our Way To Them At Last, Just As When We Have Accepted An Invitation We Duly Arrive In A Certain House At A Given Time.