An old man, a recorder of hate and love and death, sits in the pale California sunshine, chasing through the shadows of his own heart a quarry of monstrous guilt. A half-century ago, on a vacation, he crossed Lake Constance, and remembers that the Swiss shore seemed like a part of the great world, as his home was not. There was a taint (he thinks now) in that feeling; and in Lübeck, his home, more than a taint.
"We lived in the Gothic Middle Agesand I am thinking not only of the skyline...
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