We all have an old knot in the heart we wish to untie.

Nowadays he doesn't think of his wife, though he knows he can turn around and evoke every move of her, describe any aspect of her, the weigh of her wrist on his heart during the night.

A memoir is the lost inheritance.

Is this how we discover the truth, evolve? By gathering together such unconfirmed fragments?...Will all of them who have remained incomplete and lost to me become clear and evident when I look back?

The Englishman left months ago, Hana, he's with the Bedouin or in some English garden with its phlox and shit.