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Ocean House or to Congress Hall. But at the Trois Couronnes, it must be added, there are
other features that are much at variance with these suggestions: neat German waiters,
who look like secretaries of legation; Russian princesses sitting in the garden; little Polish
boys walking about, held by the hand, with their governors; a view of the snowy crest of
the Dent du Midi and the picturesque towers of the Castle of Chillon.
I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the differences that were uppermost in the
mind of a young American, who, two or three years ago, sat in the garden of the Trois
Couronnes, looking about him, rather idly, at some of the graceful objects I have
mentioned. It was a beautiful summer morning, and in whatever fashion the young
American looked at things, they must have seem to him charming. He had come from
Geneva a day before, by the little steamer, to see his aunt, who was staying at the hotel Geneva having been for a long time his place of residence. But his aunt had a headache
his aunt had almost always had a headache and now she was shut up in her room,
smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty to wander about. He was some seven-andtwenty years of age; when his friends spoke of him, they usually said that he was at
Geneva, studying. When his enemies spoke of him said - but, after all, he had no
enemies; he was an extremely amiable fellow, and universally liked. What I should say,
simply, that when certain persons spoke of him they affirmed that the reason of
spending so much time at Geneva was that he was extremely devoted to a lady who
lived there a foreign lady a person older than himself. Very few Americans indeed
I think none had ever seen this lady, about whom there were some singular stories. But
Winterbourne had an old attachment for the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been
put to school there as a boy, and he had afterwards gone to college there circumstances
which had led to his forming a great many youthful friendships. Many of these he had
kept, and they were a source of great satisfaction.
After knocking at his aunts door and learning that she was indisposed. He had taken a
walk about the town, and then he had come in to his breakfast. He had now finished his
breakfast, but he was drinking a small cup of coffee, which had been served to him on a
little table in the garden by one of the waiters who looked like an attach. At last he lit a
cigarette. Presently a small boy came walking along the path an urchin of nine or
ten.(7-9)
(2) Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending, 2011 (Booker Prize):
I remember in no particular order:
- a shinny inner wrist;
- a steam rising from a wet sink as a hot frying pan is tossed into it;
- gouts os sperm circling a plughole, before being sluiced down the full length
of a tall house;
- a river rushing nonsensically upstream, its wave and wash lit by half a dozen
chasing torchbeams;
- another river, brad and grey, the direction of its flow disguised by a stiff wind
exciting the surface;
- bathwater long gone cold behind a locked door.
This last isnt something I actually saw, but what you end upo remembering isnt always
the same as what you have witnessed.
We live in time it holds us and moulds us but I never felt I understood it very
well. And Im not referring to theories about how it bends and doubles back, or may exist
elsewhere in parallel versions. No, I mean ordinary everyday time, which clocks and
watches assure us passes regularly: tick-tock, click-clock. Is there anything more
plausible than a second hand? And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach
us times malleability. Some emotions speed it up, others slow it down; occasionally it
seems to go missing until the eventual point where it really does go missing, never to
return. Im not very interested in my schooldays, and dont feel any nostalgia for them.
But school is where it all began, so I need to return briefly to a few incidents that have
grown into anecdotes, to some approximate memories which time has deformed into
certainty. If I cant be sure of the actual events anymore, I can at least be true to the
impressions those facts left. Thats the best I can manage. (3-4)
You get towards the end of life no, not life itself, but of something else: the end of
any likelihood of change in that life. You are allowed a long moment of pause, time
enough to ask the question: what else have I done wrong? I thought of a bunch of kids in
Trafalgar Square, I thought of a young woman dancing, for once in her life. I thought of
what I couldnt know or understand now, of all that couldnt ever be known or
understood. I thought of Adrians definition of history. I thought of his son cramming his
face into a shelf of quilted toilet tissue in order to avoid me. I thought of a woman frying
eggs in a carefree, slapdash way, untroubled when one of them broke in the pan; then the
same woman, later, making a secret, horizontal gesture beneath a sunlit wisteria. And I
thought of a cresting wave of water, lit by a moon, rushing past and vanishing
upstream, pursued by a band of yelping students whose torchbeams criss-crossed in
the dark.
There is accumulation. There is responsibility. And beyond these, there is unrest.
There is great unrest. (149-150)