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I shall try to squeeze out the juice from this cluster of grapes, but whether or not the result will contain the slightest particle of truth I do not yet know. I do not know where I am at this moment, whether the patch of sky above my head and these few spans of ground on which I am sitting belong to Nishapur or to Balkh* or to Benares. I feel sure of nothing in the world.

However, in order to explain my life to my stooping shadow, I am obliged to tell a story. Ugh! How many stories about love, copulation, marriage and death already exist, not one of which tells the truth! How sick I am of well-constructed plots and brilliant writing!

IT WAS ALWAYS MY OPINION that the best course a man could take in life was to remain silent; that one could not do better than withdraw into solitude like the bittern which spreads its wings beside some lonely lake. But now, since that which should not have happened has happened, I cannot help myself.

"Nostalgia is not always about the past; it can be retrospective but also prospective."

The alluring object of nostalgia is notoriously elusive. The ambivalent sentiment permeates twentieth century popular culture, where technological advances and special effects are frequently used to recreate visions of the past, from the sinking Titanic to dying gladiators and extinct dinosaurs. Somehow progress didn’t cure nostalgia but exacerbated it.

Nostalgia itself has a utopian dimension, only it is no longer directed toward the future. Sometimes nostalgia is not directed toward the past either, but rather sideways. The nostalgic feels stifled within the conventional confines of time and space.

Tarrou finally emerges as one witness who is able to see those elements of 'reality' which transgress the realist/real of life.

But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sounds above all the sea and wind.

Comprehensive. Perspectives.