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that preceded it in the past, with no visible
beginning, and the faithful presage of others
that will repeat it in the future, advertiginem.
There is nothing that is not as though lost
between indefatigable mirrors. Nothing can
occur but once, nothing is preciously in peril of
being lost. The elegiac, the somber, the
ceremonial are not modes the Immortals hold
in reverence. Homer and I went our separate
ways at the portals of Tangier; I do not think we
said good-bye.
I wandered through new realms, new
empires. In the autumn of 1066 I fought at
Stamford Bridge, though I no longer recall
whether I stood in the ranks of Harold, soon to
meet his fate, or in the ranks of that ill-fated
Harald Hardrada who conquered only six feet
or a little more of English soil. In the seventh
century of the Hegira, on the outskirts of Bulaq,
I transcribed with deliberate calligraphy, in a
language I have forgotten, in an alphabet I
know not, the seven voyages of Sindbad and the
story of the City of Brass. In a courtyard of the
prison in Samarkand I often played chess. In