She wasn’t talkative. Nor was I. Even if both of us had been, there were so many forbidden subjects between us that we wouldn’t have found much to say to each other.

No past or future. Nothing but a fragile present, which we sipped and savored together.

We feasted ourselves on little pleasures, on patterns of light and shade which we should remember all our lives. As for our flesh, we tortured it with our desperate efforts to blend it into a single whole.

—  Georges Simenon, from The Train, trans. Robert Baldick (Melville House, 2011, originally published in 1958)
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