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232 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1984
No generation had ever experienced what we had experienced. Neither the elation, nor the hopes, nor the disappointments, nor the victories. The victors, green with hunger and black from the smoke of battles, were led by no more than an inflexible faith in the triumph of the coming day.
I was thirty years old at the time, but I had the impression of having behind me a life so enormously long that the thought of it filled me with terror. It even sent a shiver down my spine.
Several times I hinted that fish were afraid of noise and kept away from such loud voiced poets.
‘Doesn’t matter!’ he would reply. ‘They must get used to that. You may not be interested in listening to my poetry, but for the fish it is capital entertainment. They have a devil of a life. The water in the river is icy, the silt is filthy, they eat ghastly stuff – worms, maggots and bitter weeds; and in the water it’s dark and cold and frightening. At any moment they might hear the clang of a pike’s jaws – jaws of steel. And then they have to clear out as quickly as they can!’