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He regarded the world-objects right in front of his face-as if from a great distance. For when he moved on the earth he also moved in other realms. In certain seasons, in certain shades, memories alighted on him like sharp-taloned birds: a head turning in the foliage, lantern light flaring in a room.
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The forest would absorb her, she thought, it would keep her until the future showed itself.
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The odor of the room was baked fruit, beeswax, pine, and old newspapers.
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Objects too at times, after all, like the landscape, held the potential for meaning- she took out the first object now- and were able to comfort.
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Where some women wanted mere privacy, she yearned for complete solitude that verged on the violent; solitude that forced you constantly back upon yourself, even when you did not want it anymore.
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It was the rapidity which overwhelmed him and bothered his sensibility. He had moved slowly all of his life. He was used to seeing things drawn out of themselves by temperature and light, not by harsh action.
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But she did not know where the doubt, the fear, began. It had always been there, but she had sought to rearrange it within herself; and in the constant rearrangement was transformation.
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You belong to the earth and the earth is hard.
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The night has made up its mind. It’s we who are too slow, who move in the wake of events already decided for us, who refuse, who are too weak or too simple, or are perhaps, strictly, unable to understand
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When one is young, he thought, one thinks that one will never know oneself. But the knowledge comes later; if not all, then some.