He felt life more clearly too—even, perhaps especially, when he came to decide that it wasn't worth the candle.

Not merely hope, but any burdensome yearning: ambition, hatred, love (especially love) - how rarely do our emotions meet the object they seem to deserve? How hopelessly we signal; how dark the sky; how big the waves. We are all lost at see, washed between hope and despair, hailing something that may never come to rescue us. Catastrophe has become art; but this is no reducing process. It is freeing, enlarging, explaining. Catastrophe has become art: that is, after all, what it is for.

But if nostalgia means the powerful recollection of strong emotions—and a regret that such feelings are no longer present in our lives—then I plead guilty . . . And if we're talking about strong feelings that will never come again, I suppose it's possible to be nostalgic about remembered pain as well as remembered pleasure. And that opens up the field, doesn't it?

Vieni jausmai laiką pagreitina, kiti sulėtina, o kartais atrodo, kad jis dingsta - kol galop ateina akimirka, kai jis iš tiesų dingsta ir jau niekada nebesugrįžta