![]() They seemed to feel there was a Central Idea Dump somewhere (just as there was supposed to be an elephant graveyard somewhere, and a fabled lost city of gold somewhere else), and he must have a secret map which allowed him to get there and back, but Mort knew better. People sometimes asked him where he got his ideas, and although he scoffed at the question, it always made him feel vaguely ashamed, vaguely spurious. It was ink on paper, but it wasn't the ink and it wasn't the paper. It wasn't like a vase, or a chair, or an automobile. Well, a story was a thing, a real thing-you could think of it like that, anyway, especially if someone had paid you for it-but in another, more important, way, it wasn't a thing at all. And when the knives, glittering in the hot sun of this huge secret garden Mort turned to run, but a hand-Amy's, he was sure-seized him by the belt and pulled him back. Time-travellers from another age, riding up through the years, patient cylindrical voyagers, their mission to wait, to persevere, to bide until the proper moment to start me on the road to lung cancer again finally arrives. He stuck one of the cigarettes in his mouth, then went out into the kitchen to get a match from the box by the stove. Time-travellers from another age, Mort thought. he felt at a loss in a way for which there was perhaps no word. Yet he still felt upset, unsettled, guilty. ![]()
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