Again I found pages of mine, this time in French, written some fifteen years ago. I’ve never been in France and was never in close contact with French people, so it’s not as if I had a familiarity with the language that waned over the years. Today I read as much French as I ever did. I’m older and more practised in thought; I should have progressed. Yet these pages from my distant past denote a confidence in the use of French that I no longer possess; they have a fluid style that today I couldn’t possibly achieve in that language; there are entire passages, complete sentences, grammatical
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