The centuries have grown heavy and weigh upon the moment. We are more corrupt than all the ages, more decomposed than all the empires. Our exhaustion interprets history, our breathlessness makes us hear the death rattle of nations… the curtain of the universe is moth-eaten, and through its holes we see nothing, now, but masks and ghosts…
“I’d just, averting my gaze from the resettling of poor Ros, caught a glimpse of Alison past the bent back of her husband: she’d also turned away and was now watching the tall police officer, Bob, scrape dried blood off the walls into little pillboxes, and I thought, captured once more by the illusion of patterns: What love shared with theater is the poetry of space…”
Robert Coover | Gerald’s Party