Hear the song of the night? Shrill, short cries come from the garden — the veranda — the kitchen — the bedroom. They are all different and all alike, these cries. They may clamor fright, or pain, or even love, or utter without motive, expressing nothing, indicating only the existence, position, and motion of each being, its signal to the world that it is there. Punctuating the anonymous night, this one cries “Here am I!” and the other replies “Here am I! This is where the world is.” May the world care.
[– after Alain Robbe-Grillet]
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Memorable Fancies 
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