Any Man Who Knocks On

Destruction After All Is A Form Of Creation.

It Seemed To Scobie That Life Was Immeasurably Long. Couldn’t The Test Of Man Have Been Carried Out In Fewer Years? Couldn’t We Have Committed Our First Major Sin At Seven, Have Ruined Ourselves For Love Or Hate At Ten, Have Clutched At Redemption On A Fifteen-year-old Deathbed?

To Comfort Me Is Like The Wrong Memory At The Wrong Place Or Time: If One Is Lonely One Prefers Discomfort.

It Was As Though Our Love Were A Small Creature Caught In A Trap And Bleeding To Death: I Had To Shut My Eyes And Wring Its Neck.

When I Replied That I Loved Her Too In That Way, I Was The Liar, Not She, For I Never Lose The Consciousness Of Time: To Me The Present Is Never Here: It Is Always Last Year Or Next Week.