Wait until spring, oh Pandini

Now, after I have become an old man, I cannot return to the novel "Wait Until Spring, Bandini" without losing its trace in the past. Sometimes, when I am lying in bed at night, a phrase or paragraph or character from that old work will enchant me, like a dream, and I will weave it together into sentences, and draw from it a kind of nostalgic memory of an old bedroom in Colorado, or my father, or my brothers and sister. I cannot imagine that what I wrote a very long time ago will give me peace as this half-dream does.