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.
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4 comments:
I was going to offer some manner of sympathy, condolence or... something befitting, until I saw the "writing exercises" tag.
So 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...
I 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:
'You can cut all the flowers, but you cannot keep the spring from coming'
Veryy thoughtful blog
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