Accident, p.16
Accident, page 16
I thought—So it does not matter much now. The earth had changed. I was sorry, but how could you have life without this ache, this terror. How could you have joy? We were sitting round the table like masks, nothing behind us. Outside the world was roaring: huge cranes above a ruined car. William; Anna. But what could I do? I loved William, and Anna. When I was first in love with Rosalind I ran through streets in the dark adoring, adoring her. She floated in a white nightdress out of windows. There was death: there was so much beauty. The small thing with its breath coming easier. The broken glass; the flywheel.
I was becoming too happy again. I was behind a table, thinking, having been through a certain fear. The brain had a speck of acid in it. Outside it was a bright windy day. I had walked this way a few minutes ago. My child was alive. I have not really explained this. We write in order to grasp it; to make a grab at the air. I wanted to say something about the world; about the meaning of it. Actions have not much to do with this. It is more a feeling: this is what life is. I thought I would go to Rosalind and say—I told you so: there is magic in my fingers. The dead thing carried from the car. The live thing in its oxygen tent. There are huge migrations of birds, of spirits. Winter and black clouds. The man surviving. I would run up the steps of the hospital to my angels and I would say—This is where William lay: This my child. Always two parts of me. I was one of the people round the table in the committee room: I was running up the steps of the hospital to greet Rosalind. From where I am writing now I can see my children playing. There are three of them, by a rose-bed, a line of fir trees. Shall I say—There was that time, a year or two ago, when Rosalind was pregnant. We were all so much younger then. We have forgotten some of it. Some of it has been changed. I have not seen Anna again. I do not see much of Charlie now. One of us may be sitting round the table in the committee room; one of us may be playing with the child that is alive. Charlie is the writer: he will write this book. But I wanted to say—This is the point of it. Remember it happy; the sun in your eyes.
Unknown Author, Accident
