It seemed to me then, that it would always be this way. That it would always be a surprise to walk out of a party at nine thirty at night and find the sky the colour of butter, That his childish mannerisms and forlorn looks would always delight me. How reckless now, I know, was he who wrote, 'the past is a foreign country.' Perhaps for professional historians, maybe, but for those of us amateurs not protected by the armour of expertise, the past is all too real. The past is a back garden, filled with uncontrollable weeds.
I was going to offer some manner of sympathy, condolence or... something befitting, until I saw the "writing exercises" tag.
ReplyDeleteSo I'll just say "Nice piece," and hope you don't need anything from column A.
You're very kind. Just a bit of wordy reminiscing. Water under the bridge...
ReplyDeleteI agree with J.Harker. It is an excellent piece. Now you have mentioned the word garden, let me quote something that Pablo Neruda wrote about them:
ReplyDelete'You can cut all the flowers, but you cannot keep the spring from coming'
Veryy thoughtful blog
ReplyDelete