Why is it—really, why is it that for three whole years, O and I have lived so amicably, and suddenly now, with just one word about that woman, about I-330 . . . Can it be that all that craziness (love, jealousy, etc.) isn’t only the stuff of idiotic ancient books? And to think that it involves me! Equations, formulas, figures, and . . . and then this—I don’t understand any of it! Any of it.
