The Minute You Become Conscious That You

Life Is All Getting Used To What You're Not Used To.

It Was Hard To Reassure Grown-ups When You Weren't Certain Yourself What You Were Feeling And Thinking—when Thoughts Dissolved Before You Could Name Them.

My Life Was Incoherent To Me. I Felt It Quivering, Spitting Out Broken Teeth.

There Was No Way To Grasp The Reality Of The Present Which Slid Away Each Second, Invisible As Air; Reality Only Existed After The Fact, In One's Vision Of The Past.

When I Had A Few Francs, I Spent Them At A Café On The Place De Longchamps, A Block Or So From My Pension, Where I Could Order A Glass Of Beaujolais And A Plate Of String Beans In Vinaigrette For The Equivalent Of Fifteen Cents.