“Composing verse, I bet?” “Shouldn’t dream of it,” I disclaimed gruffly.
He laughed, came up to me, and we chatted together in a manner to which I had not been accustomed for some time past.
You needn’t be afraid, Sinclair, that I shouldn’t understand.
I know the feeling, when one goes for a walk on a foggy evening—the thoughts autumn inspires in one.
And one writes poetry about dying nature, of course, and spent youth; which is very much like it.
Read Heinrich Heine?” “I am not so sentimental,” I said in self-defense.
“Oh, all right. But in this weather, I think, it does a man good to find a quiet place where one can take a glass of wine or something.
Are you coming with me for a bit? I happen to be quite alone. Or wouldn’t you care to?
I wouldn’t like to lead you astray, old man, if you are one of those model boys.”
A little while after we sat clinking our thick glasses in a little tavern in the suburbs, drinking wine of a doubtful quality.
At first I wasn’t much pleased, still it was rather a novelty for me. But unaccustomed to wine, I soon became talkative.
It was as if a window had been flung open within me, and the world shining in—for how long, how terribly long, had I not eased my heart by talking.
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