The Secret History

by Donna Tartt

can ever truly understand us. Our own selves make us most unhappy, and that’s why we’re so anxious to lose them, don’t you think?

but acutely, achingly conscious that I was alive and young on a beautiful day; the sky a deep deep painful blue, wind scattering the red and yellow leaves in a whirlwind of confetti.

Nihil sub sole novum, I thought as I walked back down the hall to my room. Any action, in the fullness of time, sinks to nothingness.

does not do to be frightened of things about which you know nothing,” he said. “You are like children. Afraid of the dark.”

Mais, vrai, j’ai trop pleuré! Les aubes sont navrantes.

Dust thou art, to dust thou shalt return