Despite the icy driveway and the broken washing machine and the Christmas-tree ornaments we keep finding under the couch; despite the gray birds flattened against the gray sky, the confusions of communication, and the Luis Tiant baseball card lost forever among my books; despite Anna Karenina's hideous debasement, Jane Eyre's sadistic love battles, Emma Wodehouse's blithe snobbery, and Rosamund Vincy's maddening swan neck; despite burnt toast and terrible news on the radio; despite the sadness of children, the misery of parents, the crass ignorance of shouters, the chilly ironies of watchers; despite good manners and bad thoughts, bad manners and good thoughts; despite all of these states of mind and action, despite all of their ambiguous permutations, the year has trickled through the stones and marshes, down and down its accustomed path to the sea.