414
W.S. MERWIN
they have not ruled out a hope, of course, of finding a happy re–
semblance, and with
this
in view, rather than trust their pathetic
memories they come provided with photographs collected from the
bereaved but supposedly proud households). Furthermore, the inten–
tions with which these youths are presumed to have faced the fatal
conflict, or confronted death itself when it stood before them, must
also be represented. The catalogs are limited, naturally, and such in–
dividual matters are now beyond verification. Something at last
is
chosen which is felt to be, within the practical limitations, suitably
sad and suitably noble, to commemorate all of these fictions.
And the result, for heaven knows how many years afterwards,
graces the little square in
all
weathers, with the names on its base
and the war in which they were called meaning less and less to more
and more people. Familiarity and the symmetry of its surroundings
before long set about making the object itself grow
dim.
What it
evokes, in a while, to many of those who see it, both natives and
strangers, is the boredom of the square, the elusiveness of meaning,
the anonymity in which the names, even of the living, are ghosts, the
delusions of others, at times even a shifty levity, and at times an un–
comprehended and unmentioned fear.
