Another year passes, and we remember Ratch, striding high in the direction of his dreams. The RA in my daughter's name Lara was to honour Ratch, and so he is present for me.
*The differences that divide us […] pale in comparison with the fact that we are all woven out of time, that we are born and we die, mayflies who live but a day. The inconceivable “now” escapes backward or inclines forward, it is already a memory or an aspiration. Speech, in which we communicate, is modulated time, just like music. And do not painting and architecture translate rhythm into space?
I am filled with the memory of people who lived and died; I write about them, conscious all the while that in a moment, I, too, will be gone. Together we are like a cloud or a nebula among the human constellations of the twentieth century […] our kinship rests on our having lived at the same time…*
—Czeslaw Milosz, Time