August 1, 2011
The rest of that long-ago summer and fall, and shorter and shorter memorial periods of the years which followed, had been miserable in the other woman’s honor. That idyll like another had been mightier in retrospect than while it had taken place; so much more fleeting are all actions, so much more evanescent the body, than illusions and the mind. Youth is a day during which one cannot keep awake, a night during which one cannot sleep, Hugo thought; one has too much imagination at a certain age. The nineteen-year-old filling the hollow of his desire with harvest of pictures, books and others’ shamelessness, with memories if he has any (he had had those): a soft whirring of slight machines of flesh, the dimness that rises from a threshing floor, sheaves beaten, choking yellow chaff bit by bit blown away, and at last—it takes too long—the few grains of bodily habit separated and gathered up in the grown man’s hand…

— Glenway Wescott, “The Wedding March”

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