The man asked the woman the time, and I remember that striking me as strange, because I'd already noticed that neither was wearing a watch. I told them it was a quarter past twelve and, with a wave, said I was off to explore the island. Just as I turned my back on them and was beginning to make for the road, I heard the woman whisper something with liturgical emphasis. 'When we die - as when the scenes have been fixed on to celluloid and the scenery is pulled down and burnt - we are phantoms in the memories of our descendants. Then we are ghosts, my dear, then we are myths. But still we are together, still we are past together, we are a distant past. Beneath a dome of the mysterious past I still hear your voice.'