* * *

A tragic life, not for what happened but for what did not. The leaves were cut, the pages skimmed the words scanned. Yet infinitely many empty flyleaves opened in a fan to be fittingly held in no-one's hand. Something said, in expectation of joy, was underripe; something said in anticipation of pain was unacceptably bitter. One leaf, it seemed, bore a message: postponing, however, once more most of that which was to be said to what had been said before.