CHAPTER 21I know there is no past. No matter how the leaves are turned, I know the book is never closed. As long as I think and am, I know there is no past; as long as there comes no blackness that makes me cease to think and cease to be. The past is no memory. I know better, far better than that. I know it, because the past is in me now. It moves and turns. It’s still as living as nerve and flesh. It is the present and the future too. It is what I am, whatever I may be. I know it, and I’m not the only one who knows. Ask the others in that restless, wide-eyed army who have touched the brand of Cain.
Now that I’m nearly finished and I try to tell the end, I know that nothing has gone, no, nothing. Once in the angle of a wall that surrounded a Roman garden a thousand years ago, I saw finger
