ABSTRACT
As I sit writing this I gaze from time to time out of my study window. My study is in the old quarter of the university, and overlooks a pleasant quadrangle. A magnificent African Cussonia tree dominates the scene, its large sprays of leaves massing layer upon layer right up to the eaves of the sandstone buildings. Yet the leaves are individually delineated, if I take the trouble to pay attention to them-thousands and thousands of them clearly outlined one against another. The blocks of sandstone, too, in the walls of the building opposite, are well-defined, as are the slate tiles that make up the roof. Stray petals from a large blossoming prunus tree just out of view float past the window, dusky pink against the sky. At first I think they are butterflies, but no, they are petals, turning over and over as they find their way to the ground. Through the windows on the opposite side of the quad I can see books standing in line along snatches of shelves, and below, the cracks in the pavement indicating the boundaries of the stone slabs, the individual planks and lengths of metal piping that make up the scaffolding on which a man is standing, chisel in hand. The university is forever engaged in restoration. There are many, many petals lying flattened on the ground.
