“Now, Corgan, how did you get that broken skin on your hand?”
“Dammit, Mendor, I told you I don’t know.”
Mendor’s gasp was like a gale blowing through the Box.
“Where did you learn that word, Corgan?”
“What word?” But he knew exactly the word Mendor meant.
A pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered. You are speaking, Hmán, as if the pleasure were one thing and the memory another. It is all one thing. The séroni could say it better than I say it now. Not better than I could say it in a poem. What you call remembering is the last part of the pleasure, as the crah is the last part of a poem. When you and I met, the meeting was over very shortly, it was nothing. Now it is growing something as we remember it. But still we know very little about it. What it will be when I remember it as I lie down to die, what it makes in me all my days till then—that is the real meeting. The other is only the beginning of it. You say you have poets in your world. Do they not teach you this?
…And how could we endure to live and let time pass if we were always crying for one day or one year to come back—if we did not know that every day in a life fills the whole life with expectation and memory and that those are that day?