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Page 18.
— iii —
Speak, Memory—take me back in time, past the moment of my birth on a remote shore of the Bering Sea, to a warm but dangerous place called San Francisco during the greatest of all wars, of which my beautiful mother told me before she died so young.
In San Francisco, where I was conceived in 1945, I was—as the American expression goes—but a glint in my handsome daddy’s eye and, in that same moment, a shiver in my beautiful mommy’s step when the arrow pierced her heart once again.
Their first moment together actually came earlier during that great Iliad—in London right after the Blitz, when it seemed the good world they’d all known was coming to an end, and nothing was what it seemed. But then, that is what this song is all about—love and war—the sirens of love and war, that sing upon the seas of the world.
Their moment in London was as quickly lost as it occurred, in the unstoppably churning breakers of time—when atoms seamlessly rearrange themselves in a luminous soup—time at its irreducible minimum being a condensate without shape or form, shade without color, paralysed force, gesture without motion—never stopping for definition, nor even broadcasting transient coordinates, like those lonely war ships full of men far out at sea.
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