Every student at 86 must have, under the translucid cupola of his little cranium, a landscape just as ruined as the world around him, as the school itself, the old factory, the mechanic’s, and the pipe factory. By the time all that has been said and written over the centuries gets to him, it has turned to rubble, chipped bricks, rusty and bent pipes, the broken shutters of a Babel fallen into disrepair.
