Life is Kisses on a Pen

What's it mean when suddenly you see your whole life read between the lines in a piece of writing? You'll know forever more the laws of property and the free economy, but whereas all the ordinary is so lacking in lyricism, one day you find yourself pushed back into a tree by the ghost of a marvelous sonnet who is haunting your unending afterthoughts. The afterthought of the prose you cannot come to grips with—the small words in your mind that run parallel to your dreams and reality—that you cannot mold to form—to your standard—in spite of all the time you spend on it. In spite of all the time we spent on it. And how I admire them who can procrastinate all feelings of love and affection—who write in hunch till four-thirty—until the words which have taken such a powerful hold of their imagination are lighted.

Funny enough, there is a saying in French 'L'esprit de l'escalier,' literally, it means 'The Spirit of the Staircase.' Or 'The Wit of the Staircase,' what have you. It refers to any clever remark that comes to the mind too late to be useful, the perfect witty response as comeback. "Esprit d'escalier," she replied. "Esprit d'escalier. The answer you cannot make, the pattern you cannot complete till aterwards it suddenly comes to you when it is too late."