Whereas it seemed to me, back then, in the absolutism of my condition, that love had nothing to do with practicality; indeed, was its polar opposite. And the fact that it showed contempt for such bana...
It is only a metaphor—or the worst of dreams; yet there are metaphors which sit more powerfully in the brain than remembered events.
I think there's a different authenticity to memory, and not an inferior one. Memory sorts and sifts according to the demands made on it by the rememberer.
He sometimes asked himself a question about life. Which are truer, the happy memories, or the unhappy ones? He decided, eventually, that the question was unanswerable.
He never recorded the writer or the source: he didn't want to be bullied by reputation; truth should stand by itself, clear and unsupported.
Everyone has their love story. Everyone. It may have been a fiasco, it may have fizzled out, it may never even have got going, it may have been all in the mind, that doesn't make it any less real. Som...
But that was the nature of relationships: there always seemed to be an imbalance of one sort or another.
Because once you had been through certain things, their presence inside you never really disappeared.
And who does not want their love authenticated?
And perhaps I I didn't even understand the young when I was young. That could be true too.
And one other thing: don't ask me about the weather. I don't much remember what the weather has been like during my life. True, I can remember how hot sun gave greater impetus to sex; how sudden snow...
And first love always happens in the overwhelming first person. How can it not? Also, in the overwhelming present tense. It takes us time to realise that there are other persons, and other tenses.
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