The Eskimo has fifty-two names for snow because it is important to them; there ought to be as many for love.

'1984' is not a wonder tale. Not only could it happen, but it has happened, but under different names.

No luck was dumb because luck was just another name for miracle.

But in the end, back she comes. There's no use resisting. She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immolation is what she wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries.