But why had he lied, why? This was what he could not recall. Melancholia as a failure of memory, an acute sensation of the irreality of the past, its nonexistence... He was a melancholic: withdrawn, out of control of his feelings, inclined to depression. He shouldn't have been chosen to go, and now he could not remember why he had fought so passionately to be chosen. The memory had gone away, overwhelmed perhaps by the poignant, aching, fragmented images of the life he had lived in the interstices of his desire to go to Mars. So minuscule and so precious; the evenings in the plazas, the summer days on the beaches, the nights in women's beds. The olive trees of Avignon. The green flame cypress.
+1 Vote for this quoteVote against this quote 0
Tags: long Appropriate+1Inappropriate
+ add attribution
Attributions: None
This quote was added August 12, 2007.