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How clearly I see her! I must be making her up, I mean I must be making up these details. She wore a gaberdine raincoat, the tails of it flapping behind to right and left of her like, yes, like wings, and a blue jumper over a blouse with a white collar.
She was almost upon me, freewheeling, leaning back relaxedly and steering with one hand. The church stood on a rise, and when I looked up and saw her approaching with the steeple beetling at her back it seemed thrillingly that she had come swooping down out of the sky at just that moment, and that what I had heard was not the sound of tyres on the tarmac but of rapid wings beating the air. I had turned in at the gates of the Church of Mary Our Mother Immaculate, head down as usual-Lydia says I walk like a permanent penitent-and the first presage I had of the woman on the bicycle was the fizzing of tyres, a sound that seemed to me excitingly erotic when I was a boy, and does so even yet, I do not know why. Remember what April was like when we were young, that sense of liquid rushing and the wind taking blue scoops out of the air and the birds beside themselves in the budding trees? I was ten or eleven. The first woman may not have been she at all, may have been only an annunciation of her, so to speak, but it pleases me to think the two were one. There were for me two distinct initial manifestations of Mrs Gray, years apart. The items of flotsam that I choose to salvage from the general wreckage-and what is a life but a gradual shipwreck?-may take on an aspect of inevitability when I put them on display in their glass showcases, but they are random representative, perhaps, perhaps compellingly so, but random nonetheless.
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When I look back all is flux, without beginning and flowing towards no end, or none that I shall experience, except as a final full stop.
Some say that without realising it we make it all up as we go along, embroidering and embellishing, and I am inclined to credit it, for Madam Memory is a great and subtle dissembler. Not that there is much difference between the two, if indeed there is any difference at all. What do I recall of her, here in these soft pale days at the lapsing of the year? Images from the far past crowd in my head and half the time I cannot tell whether they are memories or inventions. She was so unhappy then, so unhappy, she must have been, despite her valiant and unfailing cheeriness, and I dearly hope she did not continue so. I wonder how things are with her, assuming she is still of this earth. We could take a course of monkey-gland injections, she and I, and be as we were fifty years ago, helpless in raptures. I should like to be in love again, I should like to fall in love again, just once more. What if I were to set off in search of her? That would be a quest. She would be, what, eighty-three, eighty-four? That is not a great age, these days. Such things are easily said, since words themselves have no shame and are never surprised. I was fifteen and Mrs Gray was thirty-five. Love may be too strong a word but I do not know a weaker one that will apply. Catherine Cleave, in childhoodīilly Gray was my best friend and I fell in love with his mother.
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When his stunted acting career is suddenly, inexplicably revived with a movie role portraying a man who may not be who he says he is, his young leading lady-famous and fragile-unwittingly gives him the opportunity to see with aching clarity the “chasm that yawns between the doing of a thing and the recollection of what was done.” And it is the question that haunts Alexander Cleave as he plumbs the memories of his first-and perhaps only-love (he, just fifteen, the woman more than twice his age, the mother of his best friend the situation impossible, thrilling, devouring, and finally devastating)… and of his daughter, lost to a kind of madness of mind and heart that Cleave can only fail to understand. The Man Booker Prize-winning author of The Sea gives us a brilliant, profoundly moving new novel about an actor in the twilight of his life and his career: a meditation on love and loss, and on the inscrutable immediacy of the past in our present lives.Is there any difference between memory and invention? That is the question that fuels this stunning novel, written with the depth of character, the clarifying lyricism, and the heart-wrenching humor that have marked all of John Banville’s extraordinary works. Series: Alexander Cleave Trilogy Ancient Light John Banville