Saturday, January 29, 2005

...sometimes in passing in front of the block of flats I remembered the rainy days when I took my editor there on pilgrimage. But I remembered them without the melancholy that I then thought I should savour one day in the sentiment of not loving her anymore. Because this melancholy, which I similarly projected in advance of the coming indifference, was my love. And this love was no more...

Marcel Proust

Hi George,
I think of you often. Not least when I hear "Beds are burning". Your rendition stays with me. I would love to hear from you.
Jim Lloyd
The email is
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