I Don't Believe In God, But I

In Those Days, We Imagined Ourselves As Being Kept In Some Kind Of Holding Pen, Waiting To Be Released Into Our Lives. And When The Moment Came, Our Lives -- And Time Itself -- Would Speed Up. How Were We To Know That Our Lives Had In Any Case Begun, That Some Advantage Had Already Been Gained, Some Damage Already Inflicted? Also, That Our Release Would Only Be Into A Larger Holding Pen, Whose Boundaries Would Be At First Undiscernible.

(on Grief) And You Do Come Out Of It, That’s True. After A Year, After Five. But You Don’t Come Out Of It Like A Train Coming Out Of A Tunnel, Bursting Through The Downs Into Sunshine And That Swift, Rattling Descent To The Channel; You Come Out Of It As A Gull Comes Out Of An Oil-slick. You Are Tarred And Feathered For Life.

He Always Thought That Touie's Long Illness Would Somehow Prepare Him For Her Death. He Always Imagined That Grief Anf Guilt, If They Followed, Would Be More Clear-edged, More Defined, More Finite. Instead They Seem Like Weather, Like Clouds Constantly Re-forming Into New Shapes, Blown By Nameless, Unidentifiable Winds.

You Get Towards The End Of Life - No, Not Life Itself, But Of Something Else: The End Of Any Likelihood Of Change In That Life. You Are Allowed A Long Moment Of Pause, Time Enough To Ask The Question: What Else Have I Done Wrong?

Remember The Botched Brothel-visit In L’education Sentimentale And Remember Its Lesson. Do Not Participate: Happiness Lies In The Imagination, Not The Act. Pleasure Is Found First In Anticipation, Later In Memory.