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We are, all of us, wandering about in a state of oblivion, borrowing our time, seizing our days, escaping our fates, slipping through loopholes, unaware of when the axe may fall. As Thomas Hardy writes of Tess Durbeyfield, ‘There was another date . . . that of her own death; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it?’
You inhabit your being as you might a house: the body is a structure within which you must live, as best you can, flitting from one wall to the next. The framework is inert but you – that invisible, interior part of yourself – are anything but.
