A convert’s but a fly, that turns about,
After his head’s pull’d off, to find it out.
“It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional. This may have nothing to do with the acts we have committed, or the humors we do go in and out of. It may be only the room — a cube — having no persuasive powers of its own. The room simply is. To occupy it, and find a metaphor there for memory, is our own fault.”
Thomas Pynchon | V.