A man doesn't have time in his lifeto have time for everything.He doesn't have seasons enough to havea season for every purpose. EcclesiastesWas wrong about that.A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,to laugh and cry with the same eyes,with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,to make love in war and war in love.And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digestwhat history takes years and years to do.A man doesn't have time.When he loses he seeks, when he findshe forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loveshe begins to forget.And his soul is seasoned, his soulis very professional.Only his body remains foreveran amateur. It tries and it misses,gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,drunk and blind in its pleasures and its pains.He will die as figs die in autumn,Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,the leaves growing dry on the ground,the bare branches pointing to the placewhere there's time for everything.