7 April 2012
…what a strange name for a day. Yet it has always seemed to me to be
eerily appropriate in the same way that the striking of the hall clock just at
midnight every night seems to me to be strangely holy. There is that quiet, as
if the whole house were waiting for the dull, flat striking, the close counting
out. And when it is done, one can almost hear the house settling down at last into
today; for today was what the house, and we with it, had been waiting for.
We were done with yesterday, but try as we might, we could not pass out of it
by our own volition…not ever…not until the striking does it for us…not until it
carries us and the house around us out of now into its mid-strikes of no-time
and, then, at their silencing, on into now.