I retelephoned two hours later; got, as usual, Sybil; insisted on talking to my friend (my “messages” were never transmitted), obtained him, and asked him as calmly as possible what he had been doing around noon when I had heard him like a big bird in my garden. He could not quite remember, said wait a minute, he had been playing golf with Paul (whoever that was), or at least watching Paul play with another colleague. I cried that I must see him in the evening and all at once, with no reason at all, burst into tears, flooding the telephone and gasping for breath, a paroxysm which had not happened to me since Bob left me on March 30. There was a flurry of confabulation between the Shades, and then John said: “Charles, listen. Let’s go for a good ramble tonight, I’ll meet you at eight.” It was my second good ramble since July 6 (that unsatisfactory nature talk); the third one, on July 21, was to be exceedingly brief.

Where was I? Yes, trudging along again as in the old days…

Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire

Trudging along in our desert caravan…

Night and stars above that shine so bright
The myst’ry of their fading light
That shines upon our caravan
Sleep upon my shoulder as we creep
Across the sand so I may keep
The mem’ry of our caravan
This is so exciting You are so inviting Resting in my arms
As I thrill to the magic charms
Of you beside me here beneath the blue
My dream of love is coming true
Within our desert caravan