"Some things look exactly the same as they did fifty years ago. But I know that this is an illusion, something deceptive. The grass is not the same grass; it is merely similar; it is merely like the grass that was there before; so, too, the air, and the view as you turn down the lane which leads to the cliff. The smell on a summer’s day seems not to have changed, and the light itself, the light over the east coast of Ireland at this point in Wexford, oddly gentle, and subtle on most days, is filled for me with images and a confused jumble of memories, and then, on days when I’m lucky, something comes utterly clear, as though already shaped by all the time that has passed."
- Colm Tóibín, A GUEST AT THE FEAST, A MEMOIR (Penguin, no Kindle)
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