What We Can Know

by Ian McEwan

We had ceased to be lovers, but after I moved out we became good friends, determined not to let each other go. We had affairs, even talked about them, and colluded in the idea that it was a relief to be intimate, like siblings. It was as if we were waiting. We were close, and something would have to happen to force us apart or even closer.

Memory is a sponge. It soaks up material from other times, other places and leaks it all over the moment in question.

If you find that thing at last (which you probably won’t) it will not live up to your hopes. Always beyond reach, is the principle. This is how religions begin, with pursuit of the ineffable, and continue, as their gods become lost gods.

Loss is the fabric of existence. All bad things are lost too. All torturers, all diseases. Lost civilisations, lost causes, lost symphonies, computer files, Edens, umbrellas, loves, landscapes, keys, wallets, pens, cats, innocence, sorrows, talent, parents, wits, reading glasses – a ceaseless parade of receding carnival floats.