I’m still reading Simon Gray’s Coda. He is in Crete with his wife, attempting to escape (my word) from his dying. He doesn’t, can’t. None of us can. I like sharing his experience though, the good and the bad. I remember Greece, as I remember Italy and Spain. That’s what holidays become, memories, or at least a fictional account, a selective recollection. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s the sensations I revisit mostly. And he describes those so well – the food, the smells, the sounds, the air, the weather – all of it. Those places filled me up. I had time to absorb them. It was good. And I felt good.
