The Truth Came Slowly Like

Literature Is The Province Of Imagination, And Stories, In Whatever Guise, Are Meditations On Life.

People Steal Into One's Consciousness And Occupy What Seems, In Retrospect, To Have Been Their Place All Along.

A Year And A Half After The End Of The War And The German Occupation, Paris Was Muted And Looked Bruised And Forlorn. Everywhere I Went, I Sensed The Tracks Of The Wolf That Had Tried To Devour The City. But Paris Proved Inedible, As It Had Been Ever Since Its Tribal Beginnings On An Island In The Seine, The Ile De La Cité.

There Was No Way To Grasp The Reality Of The Present Which Slid Away Each Second, Invisible As Air; Reality Only Existed After The Fact, In One's Vision Of The Past.

Life Is All Getting Used To What You're Not Used To.