Snow is falling outside. The past summer is like a wishful dream now, and there would never be such a summer in my life again. Even the autumn, which was stunningly glorious, was definitely gone.
I was reading in the living room. I loved these quiet and solitary hours.
“I walk home, thinking of another place, of seemingly long endless summers and the shade of different kinds of trees; and then of winters when the branches of the trees were bare, so bare that, recalling them now, it seems inconceivable to me that I looked at them and did not think of the summer just gone, and the spring soon to come, as illusions; as dreams, never fulfilled, never to be fulfilled.” (“A Division of the Spoils”, p.536)
When I read these words once again, I wept. I felt that Paul Scott was writing those lines for people like me.
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