“Life is shit, thought Pelletier in astonishment, all of it.”

“The strangest part of the dream,' said Pelletier, 'was the water was alive.”

“Old and alone, thought Pelletier. Just one of thousands of old men on their own. Like the machine célibataire. Like the bachelor who suddenly grows old, or like the bachelor who, when he returns from a trip at light speed, finds the other bachelors grown old or turned into pillars of salt. Thousands, hundreds of thousands of machines célibataires crossing an amniotic sea each day, on Alitalia, eating spaghetti al pomodoro and drinking Chianti or grappa, their eyes half closed, positive that the paradise of retirees isn’t in Italy (or, therefore, anywhere in Europe), bachelors flying to the hectic airports of Africa or America, burial ground of elephants. The great cemeteries at light speed. I don’t know why I’m thinking this, thought Pelletier. Spots on the wall and spots on the skin, thought Pelletier, looking at his hands. Fuck the Serb.”

“All that we don’t know is astonishing. Even more astonishing is what passes for knowing.”

“I am all astonishment.”

“Into this life of cruel wonder sent,Without a word to tell us what it meant,Sent back again without a reason why -Birth, life, and death - 'twas all astonishment.”