A novel gives each fragment of the self an entire life of its own; it’s easy to imagine lives that give scope to underserved fragments.
“There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth — yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald | This Side of Paradise