“he could feel his hope wilting.”

“But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the teashop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him- he could not feel. He could reason; he could read, Dante for example, quite easily…he could add up his bill; his brain was perfect; it must be the fault of the world then- that he could not feel.”

“He smiled and it was beautiful and horrible what I saw in it. Hope that should not be born and desire that could never bear fruit. Whether they were my feelings or his, I did not know.”

“He could not feel agony. He could not feel sadness. His consciousness felt smoky, wisplike, incapable of anything but calm”

“Dex,” I whispered.“Mmmm?” he grunted.“I hope you never stop feeling alive.”I could have sworn his heart skipped a few beats. He tensed. Then relaxed.“As long as you’re around,” he said softly, “I’ll be alive.”

“He asked himself whether it could be that he was in love with her, and then hoped he was not; hoped it not so much for his own sake as for that of the amatory passion itself. If this was love, love had been overrated.”