How simple the pleasures of those childhood days, br Simple but filled with exquisite satisfactions. br The iridescent labyrinth of the spider, br Its tethered tensor nest of polygons br Puffed by the breeze to a little bellying sail -- br Merely observing this gave infinite pleasure. br The sound of rain. The gentle graphite veil br Of rain that makes of the world a steel engraving, br Full of soft fadings and faint distances. br The self-congratulations of a fly, br Rubbing its hands. The brown bicameral brain br Of a walnut. The smell of wax. The feel br Of sugar to the tongue: a delicious sand. br One understands immediately how Proust br Might cherish all such postage-stamp details.