On Saturday, they will have an evening of…aphorisms. Everyone must think of an aphorism on the subject of suffering and pleasure. - Vladimir Nabokov

My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs. Whenever I’d permit, Or, with a silent shiver, order it, Whatever in my field of vision dwelt – An indoor scene, hickory leaves, the svelte Stilettos of a frozen stillicide – Was printed on my eyelids’ nether side Where it would tarry for an hour or two, And while this lasted all I had to do Was close my eyes to reproduce the leaves,

for better or worse, it is the commentator who has the last word.

As to the past, I would not mind retrieving from various corners of space-time certain lost comforts, such as baggy trousers and long, deep bathtubs.