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Why we love the people we do is one of the enduring human mysteries—surpassed only, perhaps, by the mysterious nature of the stories we tell ourselves about those loves.
“Do not concentrate so completely on science that there’s nobody in this room who is going to spend the next seven days without reading some poetry. I hope that there’s nobody in this room that’s going to spend the next seven days without listening to some music, some good music, some modern music, some music.”
But then the great insights don’t spring from curiosity alone, but from dissatisfaction—not the depressive kind of dissatisfaction (of which, he did not say, he had experienced his fair share), but rather a “constructive dissatisfaction,” or “a slight irritation when things don’t look quite right.”
She is leaving him, not all at once, which would be painful enough, but in a wrenching succession of separations. One moment she is here, and then she is gone again, and each journey takes her a little farther from his reach. He cannot follow her, and he wonders where she goes when she leaves.