At the port

And the return of his memories began to annoy him, each one starting to weigh heavily on his wound and stinging him as they passed over it. Is the mistake his fault, that he arranged himself in a way that he cannot bear the drift of his life, and that, in cases of his curiosity and fascination, he needs, at any cost, comfort? For he was a man who read in a newspaper or in a book a strange sentence about religion, science, history, or art, about anything, and immediately became enthusiastic and hurried, rushing to search, engrossed, one day, in heritage, trying to cast his probe into it, returning to his interest in Latin language, fervently digging, then he would not linger long before abandoning everything, suddenly and without reason, disgusted by those researches and pursuits, and suddenly thrown into the heart of contemporary literature, reading the contents of many books, thinking only of this art, losing the desire to sleep because of it, until he turns away from it, another morning, with a sudden turn, and continues to dream bored, waiting for a subject on which he can focus his attention...