John BANVILLE,
The Sea, Picador 2005
P. 118 - 119
«Yet
for all my disconcertation it is the mortal she, and not the divine,
who shines for me still, with however tarnished a gleam, amidst the
shadows
of what is gone. She is in my memory her own avatar. Which is the more
real, the woman reclining on the grassy bank of my recollections, or the
strew of dust and dried marrow that is all the earth any longer retains
of her? No doubt for others elsewhere she
persists, a moving figure in the waxworks of memory, but their version
will be different from mine, and from each other’s.
Thus in the minds of the many does the one ramify and disperse.
It does not last, it cannot, it is not immortality. We carry the dead
with us only until we die too, and then it is we who are borne for a
little while, and then our bearers in their turn
drop, and so on into the unimaginable generations.»
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