Robin Turned And Looked Straight Into Her.

It Offended His Sense Of Himself, Because He Was An Individual From An Age Of Individuals, And A String Of Lights Was, Like Him, An Individual Thing. No Matter How Little The Thing Had Cost, To Throw It Away Was To Deny Its Value.

Each New Thing He Encountered In Life Impelled Him In A Direction That Fully Convinced Him Of Its Rightness, But Then The Next New Thing Loomed Up And Impelled Him In The Opposite Direction, Which Also Felt Right. There Was No Controlling Narrative: He Seemed To Himself A Purely Reactive Pinball In A Game Whose Only Object Was To Stay Alive For Staying Alive's Sake.

An Ink Bottle, Which Now Seems Impossibly Quaint, Was Still Thinkable As A Symbol In 1970.

Sounded To Me Like He Had A Pretty Good Idea What He Was Saying," Van Replied, With Surprisingly Little Anger. "it's A Pity He Had To Overintellectualize Like That. He Did Such Good Work, And Then He Had To Go And Intellectualize It.

It Seems To Me Self-evident That If You Have A Life, Things Happen In It, And Certain Things Do Change; Certain Things End. People You Know Die.