And so, like a shipwrecked man filling notes into bottles, tossing them into the waves, and hoping for the best, I continue to write longhand, licking envelopes, sticking stamps, and handing my outgoing mail to the carrier who regards me with a curious eye, as if he is looking at the last member of a species which is dying out.But he must share the pathos(伤感力), for the moment he takes my letter he says, “Thanks for your business.”
Yes, it's clear that he feels sorry for me, a man continually spitting into the wind and not learning any lessons from it.But I feel bad for him as well, walk hard through the snow, only rarely bringing me a letter from a friend, and more likely delivering advertising mails or something useless.
But it gets sadder than this.Some months ago, while thinking about but not expecting the mail, I noticed the lateness of the hour and my stillempty mailbox.By 6 that evening there was still no sign of the carrier.The next morning I called the post office.“Oh,” the cheerful voice intoned.“It got dark, so the carrier went home.”
So much for the darkness of night.
“He'll bring your mail this afternoon,” the voice concluded.
That wasn't true.When the carrier finally did make his way down my street, I signaled to him, but he shrugged kindly and said, “Nothing for you today.”
I think that, at some level, I already knew that.
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