[À un certain degré de misère, on est gagné par une sorte d’indifférence spectrale, et l’on voit les êtres comme des larves. Vos plus proches ne sont souvent pour vous que de vagues formes de l’ombre, à peine distinctes du fond nébuleux de la vie et facilement remêlées à l’invisible.]

[I am just as certain that there is such a thing as “spiritual manifestations” as I am that there is plenty of superstition and trickery.]

MALCOLM: In your dreams? (Cole shakes his head.) While you’re awake? (Cole nods.) Dead people, like, in graves? In coffins?

COLE: Walking around like regular people. They don’t see each other. They only see what they wanna see. They don’t know they’re dead.

MALCOLM: How often do you see them?

COLE: All the time. They’re everywhere.

Been an odd day … It’s all quite incredible — not that twenty years have gone by nor even that I survived … it is just to walk over the same ground after so much has happened and to remember it all with such infinite clarity.

Last week, I went back to a little village outside of Manila called Paranaque. My last visit there was February 4, 1945, and I spent one day and one night getting shelled. So I took the nostalgic walk one early morning and drank it all in and began to feel sad because nobody came up to me as they did twenty years ago and grin and say, “Victory, Joe!” So three hours later I went through a tiny alley and wound up on a dirty beach overlooking the ocean, and this little grimy 8-year-old kid comes up to me and says, “What are you looking for, Joe?” And I cup this dirty little brown face in my hand and I answer, “My youth, Joe.”

Hey, Ald! You can’t go back. At least you can’t go back and experience. You return as a tourist just to observe. Like visiting a cemetery. Nobody’s around to talk to you and reminisce, even though deep in your gut you have this urge to tap some ghost on a shoulder and say, “Hey, buddy, remember that afternoon ….”