From this point on there are memories - fleeting, persistent, trivial, burdensome - but there is nothing that binds them together. They are like that unjoined-up writing, made of separate letters unable to forge themselves into the word… or like the dissociated, dislocated drawings whose scattered elements almost never managed to connect up and with which, at the time of ”W”, roughly that is between my eleventh and fifteenth year, I filled whole exercise books: human figures unrelated to the ground which was supposed to support them, ships with sails that did not touch the masts and masts which did not fit into the hulls… the legs of athletes were separated from their trunks, their arms were out of their torsos, their hands gave them no grasp. What marks this period especially is the absence of landmarks: these memories are scraps of life snatched from the void… almost no way of ratifying them. No sequence in time, except as I have reconstructed it arbitrarily over the years. W or the Memory of Childhood | 1975 | George Perec
She closes her eyelids loudly, so that all can hear. “On come, on on come, on, come one, and most sweetly”.
The charity of her voice says he has stopped caring - ( lengthens a smile – the slight of a movement like dry wood).