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“Do you understand, dear sir, do you understand what it means when there is absolutely nowhere to go?” Marmeladov’s question of the previous day came suddenly into his mind. “For every man must have somewhere to go.” —Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment
Her face is like a peaceful sea, its depths suspected by no one.
“There are years like that, where everything goes perfectly. You have to know how to enjoy it,”
He feels stupid and tired in advance.
The sun has sunk into the sea, but it isn’t dark yet. The light has just taken on shades of pastel and the details of the landscape are still visible. The outline of a bell on the roof of a church. The aquiline profile of a stone bust. The sea and the bushy shore seem to relax, plunged into a languorous torpor, offering themselves to the night, very softly, playing hard to get.
At 4 p.m., idle days seem endless. It is now, in the middle of the afternoon, that you notice the wasted time, that you worry about the coming evening. At this hour, you are ashamed of your uselessness.
She had been in one of those sleeps so heavy that they leave you feeling sad, disorientated, your stomach full of tears.
She has the strange certainty that all struggle is futile. That all she can do is let events carry her away, wash over her, overwhelm her, while she remains passive and inert.
