Not to alter the text so that I fall under a more favorable light. If time for me really is a series of bookmarks, then I feel as if someone has shaken the book and those yellowed slips of paper, torn matchbook covers and flattened coffee stirrers have fallen to the floor, and the dog-eared flaps have been pressed smooth. I enter stores and forget what I’ve come for, leave the theater with no recollection of what I’ve just seen. I misplace things far too often these days, my glasses more than anything. Because Lester, he added, you’re not looking too well yourself. To Florence and Rome, Venice in the spring. She said once that time is nothing to me but a series of bookmarks that I use to jump back and forth through the text of my life, returning again and again to the events that mark me, in the eyes of my more astute colleagues, as bearing all the characteristics of the classic melancholic.Įmily may be right. I haven’t stepped foot on it in more than two decades, but Emily says (sometimes joking, sometimes not) that she’s not sure I ever left. The last time was from a friend’s boat that ventured into the outer harbor, and I could see it off in the distance, past the inner ring, shrouded in the summer haze, a careless smudge of paint against the sky. I haven’t laid eyes on the island in several years.
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