How much the now seems all – always, to every one of us, of course. A good thought that. Think of Stendhal, the world for him was world melancholy for Napoleon, that one flicker of time was what he knew, what he imagined it was all about. Or some young man living under Caesar, their ups and downs was it to him, the gist, the core, the facts of life. And here I am and I imagine that nothing has ever existed but that oak door, this little street with houses on one side and the park down to the square on the other, a fellow on a ladder, me on a bench, and a colonel and a girl in a brown hat. But it is nothing, well almost nothing, and people will sit here, or on a bench like it, for generations and centuries afterwards unaware of my now, of this newspaper, of this little editorial column with its signature and line of little dots, this date at the top of the page, this fold in the paper, the weight of this iron box on my leg, my left shoelace which broke this morning and has a knot in it.
- Hans Koning, The Revolutionary: 172