All those unfortunate occasions in life when we’ve been ridiculous or boorish or woefully late should be seen, in the light of our inner serenity, as the vicissitudes of travel. We are but tourists in this world, travelling willingly or unwillingly between nothing and nothing or between everything and everything, and we shouldn’t worry too much about the bumps along the way and the mishaps of the journey. I take comfort in this thought, either because there’s something in it that’s comforting, or simply because I take comfort in it. But fictitious comfort, if I don’t think about it, is real enough.

And there are so many things that comfort! There’s the blue sky above, clear and calm, where odd-shaped clouds are always floating. There’s the light breeze, which in the country shakes the thick branches of trees, while in the city it whips the laundry hanging from the fourth and fifth floors. There’s warmth when it’s warm, and coolness when it’s cool, and always a memory with its nostalgia, its hope, and a magic smile at the window of the world, and what we want knocking on the door of what we are, like beggars who are the Christ.