These men had as if casually been imprinted with the same expression, the expressions of the losers who do not give up, who know: they will lose again and again, and again and again till not give up, and that is no accident, no mistake or mishap, but it is meant to be that way .... yes, the most dreadful shame, the real crying shame, the greatest delight.
* * *
I am reading Christa Wolf on the bus to Euston; the day is sunny March. I am thinking of defeat, and the theses of history, and cyling by the Canal, by dusk, last summer. I am thinking on the sweetness of defeat, punctuated by pain, or is it the other way round: the pain, punctuated by sweetness. The momentary respite, the picnics of our life; enclaves of little victories, islands of good-humour, and then we lose, retreat, and try again.
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