The Swimmer

Was his memory failing or had he so disciplined it in the repression of unpleasant facts that he had damaged his sense of the truth?

His life was not confined and the delight he took in this observation could not be explained by its suggestion of escape.

He was not a practical joker nor was he a fool but he was determinedly original and had a vague and modest idea of himself as a legendary figure.

He might have been compared to a summer's day, particularly the last hours of one.

Then there was a fine noise of rushing water from the crown of an oak at his back, as if a spigot there had been turned. Then the noise of fountains came from the crowns of all the tall trees. Why did he love storms, what was the meaning of his excitement when the door sprang open and the rain wind fled rudely up the stair, why had the simple task of shutting the windows of an old house seem fitting and urgent, why did the first watery notes of a storm wind have for him the unmistakable sound of good news, cheer, glad tidings?

He has done what he wanted, he had swum the county, but he was so stupified with exhaustion that his triumph seemed vague.