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.