But that was forty years behind him. Now the train
was ribbed for speed, a segmented tube of brilliant steel. There were no pears,
no Willie, no Shura, no Helen, no Mother. Leaving the cab, he thought how his
mother would moisten her handkerchief at her mouth and rub his face clean. He
had no business to recall this, he knew, and turned toward the Grand Central in
his straw hat. He was of the mature generation now, and life was his to do
something with, if he could. But he had not forgotten the odor of his mother's
saliva on the handkerchief that summer morning in the squat hollow Canadian
station, the black iron and the sublime brass. All children have cheeks and all
mothers spittle to wipe them tenderly. These things either matter or they do
not matter. It depends upon the universe, what it is. These acute memories are
probably symptoms of disorder. To him, perpetual thought of death was a sin.
Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.
Herzog - Saul Bellow
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