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Middle age, he thought, had made him fickle.
He had learned that when he quietly fixed his calm gray eyes on somebody they too became calm; they realized, or so he thought, that what they said next should be serious in some way, that the time for the casual play of half talk had come to an end.
when he was young, he had never imagined the pain that loss would bring, pain that only work and sleep could keep at bay now.
She moved with poise and managed to seem happy not to speak much or make any demands, merely to be charmingly present.
“When he learns the art of silence he will be a very great orator indeed, even greater than he is now,”
he discovered that he could control the sadness which certain memories brought with them. When sorrows and fears and terrors came to him in the time after he woke, or in the night, they were like servants come to light a lamp or take away a tray. Carefully trained over years, they would soon disappear of their own accord, knowing not to linger.
