Critics PageMay 2025

A Moment’s Pause

The clock tower marks half past twelve. The sun is high and burning in the sky. Light falls on houses, palaces, porticos. On the ground, their shadows trace rectangles, squares, and trapezoids with a black so soft that it refreshes burning eyes. What light! How lovely it would be to live down there, near an embracing portico or a whimsical tower covered with little multicolored flags, among gentle and intelligent men. Has such an hour ever come? What does it matter, since we watch it go by.

What absence of storms, screeching owls, tempestuous seas. Here Homer would have found no songs. A hearse has been waiting forever. It is black as hope, and this morning someone claimed it would still be waiting tonight. Somewhere lies a corpse that we cannot see. The clock marks twelve thirty-two; the sun is setting; it is time to leave.

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