FROM that evening I was different inside; I was inhabited again; housekeeping had suddenly been set up within me as in a room, and someone was living there. The clock that for months had hung silent on the wall had suddenly begun to tick. This was significant: time, which until then had flowed like an indifferent stream from nothingness to nothingness (for I had been living in the pause!), without articulation, without measure, had begun to wear its human face again; to mark itself off, measure itself out. I came to live for my passes, and each day was a rung on the ladder to Lucie.
