Where else to begin my research but at home, in the shop? I was fasated by the old almanacs. Since I was a child, any moment of boredom or ay or fear would seo these shelves to flick through the pages of names and dates and annotations. Between these covers, past lives were summarized in a few brutally ral lines. It was a world where men were baros and bishops and ministers of parliament, and women were wives and daughters. There was nothing to tell you whether these men liked kidneys for breakfast, nothing to tell you whom they loved or what form their fear gave to the shapes in the dark after they blew the dle out at night. There was nothing personal at all. What was it, then, that moved me so in these sparse annotations of the lives of dead men? Only that they were men, that they had lived, that now they were dead.
Reading them, I felt a stirring in me. In me, but not of me. Reading the lists, the part of me that was already oher side woke and caress……（内容加载失败！）
(ò﹏ò)
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