Retired  from the   public  life
of      foreign      service     --
oubliettes and abbatoirs -- his
private     heart     remembers
nothing that his blood forgets.   
Magical,   musical    memoirs,
these have been   written by a
man whose life is still subject
to threats     though he    lives
surrounded by a net of dikes.


                        When parachuting for sport in the mountains
                        always remember:   at the first sight of water,
                        even of ice, control your descent.     Keep dry.   
                        Take the first road home.


                                "We used to   call it   The Boxes.   The
                                mills were here." reached it by cycling
                                over oakleaves in half-sunlight  in the
                                underground woods   "during the war.
                                Now it's the new student lounge."


In the fire station back room        on the
wall
all the alarm boxes of the city         were
represented
by blue cones of gas flame.           Long
after the
air raids and fire storms            the pilot
testified
a gas beacon had guided                   his
bombardier.


                            It was the war within the peace, God
                            in    the    mighty    fortress-machine,
                            everything   under the   surface:   you
                            couldn't know    which   trees    were
                            reinforced with steel trunks.       And
                            whatever voice     we heard croaking
                            orders   and   proverbs    out   of the
                            earth . . . well  of course  it had to be
                            God's.