the sea is high again today, with a thrilling flush of wind. in the midst of winter you can feel the inventions of spring. a sky of hot nude pearl until midday, crickets in sheltered places, and now the wind unpacking the great planes, ransacking the great planes…. i have escaped to this island with a few books and the child — melissa’s child. i do not know why i use the word ‘escape’. the villagers say jokingly that only a sick man would choose such a remote place to rebuild. well, then, i have come here to heal myself, if you like to put it that way…. at night when the wind roars and the child sleeps quietly in its wooden cot by the echoing chimney-piece i light a lamp and walk about, thinking of my friends — of justine and nessim, of melissa and balthazar. i return link by link along the iron chains of memory to the city which we inhabited so briefly together: the city which used us as its flora — precipitated in us conflicts which were hers and which we mistook for our own: beloved alexandria! i have had to come so far away from it in order to understand it all! living on this bare promontory, snatched every night from darkness by arcturus, far from the lime-laden dust of those summer afternoons, i see at last that none of us is properly to be judged for what happened in the past. it is the city which should be judged though we, its children, must pay the price.