What Could Be More Perfect Than Marrying

She Was The Sort Of Person For Whom Fear Was The Natural Response To That Beyond Explanation.

Round And Round The Questions Flew, Until Finally I Found Myself Standing At The Open Door Of A Bookshop. It’s Natural In Times Of Great Perplexity, I Think, To Seek Out The Familiar, And The High Shelves And Long Rows Of Neatly Lined-up Spines Were Immensely Reassuring. Amid The Smell Of Ink And Binding, The Dusty Motes In Beams Of Strained Sunlight, The Embrace Of Warm, Tranquil Air, I Felt That I Could Breathe More Easily.

Quite Simply The Book And I Were Meant To Be Together.

It Is A Cruel, Ironical Art, Photography. The Dragging Of Captured Moments Into The Future; Moments That Should Have Been Allowed To Be Evaporate Into The Past; Should Exist Only In Memories, Glimpsed Through The Fog Of Events That Came After. Photographs Force Us To See People Before Their Future Weighed Them Down.

But Everyone's An Expert With The Virtue Of Hindsight . . . .