The Evolution From Happiness To Habit Is

Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

I Sometimes Longed For Someone Who, Like Me, Had Not Adjusted Perfectly With His Age, And Such A Person Was Hard To Find; But I Soon Discovered Cats, In Which I Could Imagine A Condition Like Mine, And Books, Where I Found It Quite Often.

But What Is Memory If Not The Language Of Feeling, A Dictionary Of Faces And Days And Smells Which Repeat Themselves Like The Verbs And Adjectives In A Speech, Sneaking In Behind The Thing Itself,into The Pure Present, Making Us Sad Or Teaching Us Vicariously.

Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play Do We Sometimes Arrive At What We Were Before We Were This Thing That, Who Knows, We Are.

I'm Such A Jerk; It Had Never Occurred To Me That When We Look At A Photo From The Front, The Eyes Reproduce Exactly The Position And The Vision Of The Lens; It's These Things That Are Taken For Granted And It Never Occurs To Anyone To Think About Them.