It seems to me then as if all the moments of our life occupy the same space, as if future events already existed and were only waiting for us to find our way to them at last, just as when we have accepted an invitation we duly arrive in a certain house at a given time.
Tiny details imperceptible to us decide everything!
Men and animals regard each other across a gulf of mutual incomprehension.
And so they are ever returning to us, the dead.
Time, that most abstract of humanity's homes.
The more images I gathered from the past, I said, the more unlikely it seemed to me that the past had actually happened in this or that way, for nothing about it could be called normal: most of it was absurd, and if not absurd, then appalling.