Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. “That’s enough, Michelle!” Diane snapped in the ugly raised voice of the enforcer. “Can’t you SEE how things are?” she said. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. And he would express various artistic sensibilities and aesthetic appreciations in carefully punctuated sentences and a large, clear voice. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love.
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