The other day I took from my shelf a book (plays by Sam Shepard) that I have not touched for many, many years. I open it at random and out falls a postcard image of James Joyce… I look inside the cover, where I had as usual written the date of the book’s purchase: 01/81. 30 years ago!
I have no recollection of the origin of the Joyce card. In any case, it took me decades to come back to him. And it took me no time at all, quick as a lightning bolt. Having never left.
Now here, quiet night. « Here » being just my life at this moment, ready to rest, not coming back or going. Having never left.