John Updike’s Rabbit, Run is, said my once-friend once, the quintessential American novel. What he meant was not its novelness but its Americanness. This is how it is with us: people matter to us. Then stop mattering.
Well. So it is with us, too, is it not? Everything passes. Once, I meant the world to you. And now… meh, où sont les neiges d’antan?
Dictes-moy où, n’en quel pays,
Est Flora, la belle Romaine ;
Archipiada, ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine ;
Echo, parlant quand bruyt on maine
Dessus rivière ou sus estan,
Qui beauté eut trop plus qu’humaine ?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan !
Oltre Mare 