What is this life of ours supposed to be for? Are we to spend it identifying each other with catalogues, like tourists in an art gallery? Or are we to try to exchange some kind of a signal, however garbled, before it's too late? You answer me that! It's all very fine and easy for you to come to me and tell me I'm cagey (...)
But I'm not blaming you. In fact, it'd be a miracle if you did understand. Never mind. Forget it. Here am I. Here are you in that damned blanket. The point is: here am I and here are you, and for once there's no one to disturb us. This may never happen again.
And time is desperately short.
(C. Isherwood)
