Moon Tiger

by Penelope Lively

I am composed of a myriad Claudias who spin and mix and part like sparks of sunlight on water. The pack of cards I carry around is forever shuffled and re-shuffled; there is no sequence, everything happens at once.

The power of language. Preserving the ephemeral; giving form to dreams, permanence to sparks of sunlight.

Argument, of course, is the whole point of history. Disagreement; my word against yours; this evidence against that. If there were such a thing as absolute truth the debate would lose its lustre.

Because unless I am a part of everything I am nothing.