There are certain impossibilities. There are certain questions of memory and facts. We like facts, don’t we . . . the fact is . . . it means we have for a few moments at least the illusion of standing on solid ground. For example, did I miss the First World War hiding in cellars, gnawing crusts of mouldy bread, or was it, rather, that I wasn’t even born then, or is it possible that I was there in the trenches, going over the top with the rest of my mates?
It seems a small matter to take a tiny sideways step from imagination to memory. How can I be sure it didn’t happen? I could, after all, call it the recovered memory of a past life, even if it can be proved that I wasn’t born in 1890.
What I can be sure of (well, almost sure) is that there was plenty of sex, much joyful coupling. But what I’m not at all convinced of is that I should indulge my suspect inclination to reveal details of my erotic activities. Two reasons come to mind:
1) It’s private, mind your own business stuff, and
2) Aren’t we sick of the whole business. We’ve seen so much sex on TV, in movies. We’ve read about it in books and magazines. Consequently, we’re bored silly with it (is that really possible, I ask myself) and in any case do I have a new angle on it? The answer is probably not.