I ceremoniously pour myself a small beaker of wine and

set it on a table and now I lift a

glass to my lips and sip away further into the

book I am reading. The book has gaps of plot

like sections of a road washed out by storms, missing

incidents as if plaster on the ceiling had peeled away.

My past, my memories are much like that. Some phases

of my life cannot be entered because the rubble of

memory, fragments of my lived experience, have crowded in on

each other leaving many periods inert and lost to reminiscence.


Paraphrases from the novel The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje.