![]() ![]() It’s doubtful whether I have even so much as a theoretical right of spiritual inheritance to this riverbank with its dreary buildings, to the nettles, the burdock, the artemisia, and the inedible mushrooms-the crumbly, flaccid kind-overgrowing the slope to Tūla’s house, which, of course, never belonged to her either, just as the long monastery building never belonged to my combative aunt Lydija, her gentle husband the policeman and my American cousins Florijonas and Zigmas-all of them lived there in poverty during the years of the German occupation. how much this place has been staggered over, and in the mornings, grimly plodded along. ![]() Something inside me always stirs-today too-as soon as I see those two bridges again, the long Bernadine monastery, the narrow gap in the enfilade of little yards, and the little gateway, beyond which spread the real intestines and cloacae of Užupis-how much of it has been walked over with stumbling feet, not with Tūla, without Tūla, still not knowing Tūla, and then afterwards. ![]()
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