A partial Proustian pickle on bread. (Fortnightly Review).

I wanted to know what this fugitive memory was. It may have been some little treasure of a moment that had not seen the light of consciousness before. It may possibly have been my ramshackle memory going off at half-cock, like an aged librarian in an ageing library that’s accumulated so much material there’s no way either organise it or sift through it any more.

Source: The Fortnightly Review.


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