When she closed the door to the gray room the outside light was cut off and only the reading lamp threw its cone on the table. She arranged the pillows, patted them up, and sat down. She leaned her head experimentally against the down pillow. She felt rather gay, as though she were going to a party. Gingerly, she fished the chain out from her bodice, unscrewed the little tube, and shook the capsule into her hand. She smiled at it.“Eat me,” she said and put the capsule in her mouth.She picked up the tea cup. “Drink me,” she said and swallowed the bitter cold tea. She forced her mind to stay on Alice—so tiny and waiting. Other faces peered in from the sides of her eyes—her father and moth er, and Charles, and Adam, and Samuel Hamilton, and then Aron, and she could see Cal smiling at her.He didn’t have to speak. The glint of his eyes said, “You missed something. They had something and you missed it.” She thrust her mind back to Alice. In the gray wall opposite there was a nail hole. Alice would be in there. And she would put her arm around Cathy’s waist, and Cathy would put her arm around Alice’s waist, and they would walk away—best friends—and tiny as the head of a pin.A warm numbness began to creep into her arms and legs. The pain was going from her hands. Her eyelids felt heavy—very heavy. She yawned.She thought or said or thought, “Alice doesn’t know. I’m going right on past.”Her eyes closed and a dizzy nausea shook her. She opened her eyes and stared about in terror. The gray room darkened and the cone of light flowed and rippled like water. And then her eyes closed again and her fingers curled as though they held small breasts. And her heart beat solemnly and her breathing slowed as she grew smaller and smaller and then disappeared—and she had never been.
She would never change, but one day at the touch of a fingertip she would fall to dust.
Simone de Beauvoir, The Mandarins
Dust particles panicked and swarmed in the light.
The Girl with Glass Feet, Ali Shaw
It’s been almost a year. Going to the woods is going home, I will never change my mind about it.
Here sunsets are longer, times stands still for a little bit.
… time was not passing, it was turning in a circle…
One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Elle vivait dans les roses, dans les lilas, dans les giroflées, dans les muguets. Lui, flairant sa jupe, longuement, en manière de jeu, semblait chercher, finissait par dire : « Ça sent le muguet. » Il montait à la taille, au corsage, reniflait plus fort : « Ça sent la giroflée. » Et aux manches, à la jointure des poignets : « Ça sent le lilas. » Et à la nuque, tout autour du cou, sur les joues, sur les lèvres : « Ça sent la rose. » Cadine riait, l’appelait « bêta, » lui criait de finir, parce qu’il lui faisait des chatouilles avec le bout de son nez. Elle avait une haleine de jasmin. Elle était un bouquet tiède et vivant.
Le ventre de Paris, Zola
I have a million things to talk to you about. A million things we have to talk about. All I want in this world is you. I want to see you and talk. I want the two of us to begin everything from the beginning.
Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
So love becomes nobler and greater in calamity.
It was the smell of human fermentation, wich he had perceived in his oldest lovers and they had detected in him.
They talked to pass the time. They spoke of themselves, of their divergent lives, of the incredible coincidence of their lying naked in a dark cabin o a stranded boat when reason them they had time only for death.
Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez