West with the Night - Beryl Markham

My father leans against the mantelpiece and begins to load his pipe with tobacco whose aroma bestows a presence on thirty vanished years. That aroma and the smell of the smoke that follows it are to me the quintessence of memory. But memory is a drug. Memory can hold you against your strength and against your will, and my father knows it.


Beryl Markham - West With The Night