Our goings out and our comings in, our daily aspirations and our struggles to succeed, our friendships and our squabbles, our plotting and our machinations, our guilt and our self-justifications, our grovelling and our disappointments, our pleasures and our consolations—are mere pencil sketches—easily erased. Like the bones under our flesh, they comprise a certain unreality. And like all things hard and brittle, they break, are ground into fine dust, and ...
