{"product_id":"falling-out-of-time-isbn-9780345805850","title":"Falling Out of Time","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eIn this compassionate and genre-defying drama the internationally acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eTo the End of the Land \u003c\/i\u003eweaves an incandescent tale of parental grief. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eA powerful distillation of the experience of understanding and acceptance, and of art’s triumph over death, \u003ci\u003eFalling Out of Time\u003c\/i\u003e is part play, part prose, and pure poetry. As Grossman’s characters ultimately find solace and hope through their communal acts of mourning, readers will find comfort in their clamorous vitality, and in the gift of storytelling—a realm where loss is not an absence, but a life force in its own right.\u003c\/p\u003e“A strange and riveting book.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An almost unbearably personal work. . . . The monologues evoke both the raw declarations of Athenian tragedy and the homespun lamentations of Robert Frost’s narrative poem.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Spare and poetic.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A richly emotional, mystical and philosophical tapestry . . . [\u003ci\u003eFalling Out of Time\u003c\/i\u003e] deserves recognition among the greatest works in the brave and indispensable tradition of art that pushes back against catastrophe.” —\u003ci\u003eJewish Daily\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eForward\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Slim in dimension but as solid as sculpted rock. . . . Although it grows from a private, incomparable ordeal, this noble fable speaks for all.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Independent \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Part narrative poem, part play, part novel . . . [a] poignant study of bereavement and loss.” —\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Grossman is] the greatest Israeli writer of his generation. . . . Talmudic, polyphonic, yearning, [\u003ci\u003eFalling Out of Time\u003c\/i\u003e] comes from a place of pain and darkness and is acutely moving.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Daily Telegraph \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The language of its composition makes it particular to Israel, but once translated [\u003ci\u003eFalling Out of Time\u003c\/i\u003e] becomes universal.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Times Literary Supplement \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Grossman is perhaps Israel’s most important contemporary novelist. . . . [\u003ci\u003eFalling Out of Time\u003c\/i\u003e] resembles a play by Beckett or a Greek tragedy. . . . A haunting, affecting and even beautiful book.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Toronto Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s not a novel, but a mixture of poetry, prose and drama . . . as true and as powerful as CS Lewis’s great \u003ci\u003eA Grief Observed\u003c\/i\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A book that needed to be written. . . . Poetic. . . . [A] triumph.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Observer \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “At once more universal and more personal than anything [Grossman] has written before.” —\u003ci\u003eSunday Times \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eFalling Out of Time\u003c\/i\u003e is short, and clearly a deeply personal book, but its importance and impact ought not to be underestimated.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A significant new departure in literature.” —\u003ci\u003eJewish Chronicle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Sensual and uncompromising. . . . Written with such simplicity it appears to be speaking directly to the reader, \u003ci\u003eFalling Out Of Time\u003c\/i\u003e is at times Biblical in its imagery, at others weird and fantastical. . . . It’s a measure of Grossman’s clarity of thought and his theatrical timing that one reaches its end and feels, in some small way, glad to have been in his characters’ company however grim the road they travel.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Herald Scotland\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An impassioned exploration of existential questions about life and death. . . . The precision and sensory depth of Grossman’s language renders this unconventional work an unforgettable and magnificent document of suffering.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)David Grossman was born in Jerusalem. He is the author of numerous works of fiction, nonfiction, and children's literature. His work has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e and has been translated into more than forty languages. He is the recipient of many prizes, including the French Chevalier de l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, the Buxtehuder Bulle in Germany, Rome's Premio per la Pace e l'Azione Umanitaria, the Premio Ischia—international award for journalism, Israel's Emet Prize, and the Albatross Prize given by the Günter Grass Foundation.town chronicler: As they sit eating dinner, the man’s face suddenly  turns. He thrusts his plate away. Knives and forks clang. He stands up  and seems not to know where he is. The woman recoils in her chair. His  gaze hovers around her without taking hold, and she—wounded already by  disaster—senses immediately: it’s here again, touching me, its cold  fingers on my lips. But what happened? she whispers with her eyes.  Bewildered, the man looks at her and speaks:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—I have to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Where?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—To him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Where?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—To him, there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—To the place where it happened?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—No, no. There.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—What do you mean, there?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—I don’t know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—You’re scaring me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Just to see him once more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—But what could you see now? What is left to see?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—I might be able to see him there. Maybe even talk to him?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Talk?!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etown chronicler: Now they both unfold, awaken. The man speaks again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Your voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—It’s back. Yours too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—How I missed your voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—I thought we . . . that we’d never . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—I missed your voice more than I missed my own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—But what is there? There’s no such place. There doesn’t exist!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—If you go there, it does.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—But you don’t come back. No one ever has.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Because only the dead have gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—And you—how will you go?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—I will go there alive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—But you won’t come back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Maybe he’s waiting for us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—He’s not. It’s been five years and he’s still not. He’s not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Maybe he’s wondering why we gave up on him so quickly, the minute they notified us . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Look  at me. Look into my eyes. What are you doing to us? It’s me, can’t you  see? This is us, the two of us. This is our home. Our kitchen. Come, sit  down. I’ll give you some soup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLovely—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo lovely—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe kitchen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis lovely\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eright now,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith you ladling soup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere it’s warm and soft, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand steam\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecovers the cold\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewindowpane—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etown  chronicler: Perhaps because of the long years of silence, his hoarse  voice fades to a whisper. He does not take his eyes off her. He watches  so intently that her hand trembles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd loveliest of all are your tender,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecurved arms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLife is here,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edear one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had forgotten:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elife is in the place where you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eladle soup\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eunder the glowing light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou did well to remind me:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe are here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand he is there,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand a timeless border\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estands between us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had forgotten:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe are here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand he—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut it’s impossible!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eImpossible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook at me. No,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot with that empty gaze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCome back to me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto us. It’s so easy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto forsake us, and this\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elight, and tender\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003earms, and the thought\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat we have come back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto life,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand that time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enonetheless\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eplaces thin compresses—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, this is impossible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s no longer possible\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat we,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat the sun,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat the watches, the shops,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat the moon,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe couples,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat tree-lined boulevards\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eturn green, that blood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein our veins,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat spring and autumn,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat people\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einnocently,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat things just are.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat the children\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof others,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat their brightness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand warmness—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBe careful,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou are saying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe threads\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eare so fine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt night people came\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebearing news.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey walked a long way,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003equietly grave,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand perhaps, as they did so,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethey stole a taste, a lick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith a child’s wonder\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethey learned they could hold\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edeath in their mouths\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike candy made of poison\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto which they are miraculously\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eimmune.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe opened the door,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethis one. We stood here,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou and I,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eshoulder to shoulder,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethey\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the threshold\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand we\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efacing them,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand they,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emercifully,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003equietly,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estood there and\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egave us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe breath\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was awfully quiet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCold flames lapped around us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said: I knew, tonight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou would come. I thought:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCome, noiseful void.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom far away,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI heard you:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon’t be afraid, you said,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI did not shout\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen he was born, and\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI won’t shout now either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur prior life\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ekept growing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einside us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor a few moments longer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpeech,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emovements,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eexpressions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman and woman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor a moment,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe sink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBoth not saying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe same words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot bewailing him,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor now,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut bewailing the music\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof our previous life, the\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewondrously simple, the\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eease, the\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eface\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efree of wrinkles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut we promised each other,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe swore to be,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto ache,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto miss\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehim,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto live.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo what is it now\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat makes you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esuddenly tear away?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter that night\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea stranger came and grasped\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy shoulders and said: Save\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhat is left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFight, try to heal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook into her eyes, cling\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto her eyes, always\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eher eyes—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edo not let go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon’t go back there,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto those days. Do not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eturn back your gaze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn that darkness I saw\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eone eye\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eweeping\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand one eye\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecrazed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA human eye,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eextinguished,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the eye\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof a beast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA beast half\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edevoured in the predator’s mouth,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esoaked with blood,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einsane,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epeered out at me from your eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe earth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egaped open,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egulped us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand disgorged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon’t go back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethere, do not go,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot even one step\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eout of the light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could not, I dared not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elook into your eye,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat eye of\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emadness,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto your noneness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI did not see you,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI did not see\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea thing,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom the human eye\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor the eye\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the beast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy soul was uprooted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was very cold then\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand it is cold\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enow, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCome to sleep,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit’s late.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor five years\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe unspoke\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou fell mute,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethen I.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor you the quiet\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewas good,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand I felt it clutch\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat my throat. One after\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe other, the words\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edied, and we were\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a house\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere the lights\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ego slowly out,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003euntil a somber silence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efell—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd in it\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI rediscovered you,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand him. A dark mantle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecloaked the three of us,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eenfolded us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith him, and we were mute\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike him. Three embryos\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003econceived\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eby the bane—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd together\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe were born\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the other side,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewithout words, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewithout colors,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand we learned\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto live\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe inverse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(silence)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSee how\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eword by word\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eour confiding\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis attenuated, macerated,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a dream\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eilluminated\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eby a torch. There was\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea certain miracle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewithin the quietude,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea secrecy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewithin the silence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat swallowed us up\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith him. We were silent there\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike him, there we spoke\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis tongue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor words—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow does the drumming\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof words voice\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis death?!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etown  chronicler: In the hush that follows her shout, the man retreats until  his back touches the wall. Slowly, as if in his sleep, he spreads both  arms out and steps along the wall. He circles the small kitchen, around  and around her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTell me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etell me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sense something\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esecret: you are tearing off\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe bandages\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eso you may drink\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour blood, provisions\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor your journey to there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat night,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etell me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecircle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003earound me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a beast\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof prey. You close\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein on me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a nightmare.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat night, that\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou want to hear about\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe sat on these chairs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou there, me here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou smoked. I remember\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour face came\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand went in the smoke,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eless and less\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeach time. Less\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou, less\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe waited\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein silence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emorning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eblood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eflowed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stood up, I wrapped you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a blanket,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou gripped my hand, looked\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estraight into my eyes: the man\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand woman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe had been\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enodded farewell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewafted dark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand cold\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom the walls,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebound my body,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eclosed and barred\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy womb. I thought:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey are sealing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe home that once\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewas me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpeak. Tell me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emore. What did we say?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho spoke first? It was very quiet,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewasn’t it? I remember breaths.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd your hands twisting\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etogether. Everything else\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis erased.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCold, quiet fire burned\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003earound us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe world outside shriveled,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esighed, dwindled\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto a single dot,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003escant,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eblack,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emalignant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI thought: We must\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eleave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI knew: There’s nowhere\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eleft.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe minute\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit happened,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe minute\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit became—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn an instant we were cast out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto a land of exile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey came at night, knocked on our door,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand said: At such and such time,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein this or that place, your son\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethus and thus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey quickly wove\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea dense web, hour\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand minute and location,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut the web had a hole in it, you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esee? The dense web\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emust have had a hole,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand our son\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efell\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethrough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etown  chronicler: As she speaks these words, he stops circling her. She looks  at him with dulled eyes. Lost, arms limp, he faces her, as if struck at  that moment by an arrow shot long ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWill I ever again\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esee you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas you are,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erather than as\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe is not?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can remember\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou without\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis noneness—your innocent,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehopeful smile—and I can remember\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emyself without his noneness. But not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehim. Strange: him\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewithout his noneness, I can no longer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eremember. And as time goes by\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit starts to seem as though\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeven when he was,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethere were signs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof his noneness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes, you know,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI miss\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat ravaged,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebloody\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eshe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes I believe her\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emore than I believe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emyself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe is the reason I take\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy life\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein your hands and ask\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou a question\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI myself\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edo not understand:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWill you go with me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto him?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat night I thought:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow we will separate. We cannot live\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etogether any longer. When I tell you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou will embrace\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe no, embrace\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe empty space\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow will we cleave together?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wondered that night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow will we crave each other?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I kiss you,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy tongue will be slashed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eby the shards of his name\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein your mouth—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow will you look into my eyes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith him there,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ean embryo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the black\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof my pupils?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery look, every touch,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewill pierce. How will we love,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI thought that night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow will we love, when\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein deep love\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe was\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003econceived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emoment\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit happened—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt happened? Look\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat me, tell me:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDid it happen?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd it billows up\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabundantly,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ean endless\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewellspring. And I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eknow—as long as\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI breathe,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI will draw\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand drink and drip\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat blackened\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emoment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMourning condemns\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe living\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto the grimmest solitude,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emuch like the loneliness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein which disease\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eenclothes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe ailing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut in that loneliness,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere—like soul\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edeparting body—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am torn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom myself, there\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am no longer alone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eno longer alone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eever since.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I am not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ejust one there,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand never will be\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eonly one—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere I touch his\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einner self,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis gulf,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas I have\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enever touched\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea person\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the world—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd he,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe also touches\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eme from\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethere, and his touch—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eno one has ever\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etouched me in that way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(silence)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf there were such a thing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas there,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand there isn’t,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou know—but if\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethere were,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethey would have already gone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of everyone would have\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egot up and gone. And how\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efar will you go,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand how will you know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour way back,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand what if you don’t\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecome back, and even if\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou find it—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand you won’t,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebecause it isn’t—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eif you find it, you will not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecome back,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethey will not let you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eback, and if you do\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecome back, how\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewill you be, you might\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecome back so different\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat you won’t\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecome back,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand what about me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow will I be if you don’t\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecome back, or if\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou come back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eso different that you don’t\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecome back?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etown  chronicler: She gets up and embraces him. Her hands scamper over his  body. Her mouth probes his face, his eyes, his lips. From my post in the  shadows, outside their window, it looks as if she is throwing herself  over him like a blanket on a fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat night I thought:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow we will never\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eseparate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven if we want to,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow can we?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho will sustain him, who will\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eembrace\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eif our two bodies do not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eenvelop\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis empty fullness?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCome,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhat could be simpler?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithout mulling or wondering\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor thinking: his mother\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand father\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eget up and go\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn whose eyes will we look to see him,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epresent and absent?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn whose hand\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewill we intertwine fingers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto weave him\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efleetingly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein our flesh?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon’t go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe eyes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eone single\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003espark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom his eyes—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow can we,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow may we\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot try?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd what will you tell him,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou miserable madman?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat will you say? That hours\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eafter him, the hunger awoke\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein you?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat your body\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand mine, like a pair\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof ticks, clutched\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat life and clung\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto each other and forced us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto live?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf we can be with him\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor one more moment,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eperhaps he, too,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewill be\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor one more\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emoment,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea look—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea breath—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then what?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat will become\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof him?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd of us?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps we’ll die like he did, instantly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr, facing him, suspended,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe will swing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebetween the living\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the dead—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut that we know. Five years\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the gallows of longing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(pause)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe smell\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour body emits\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen your grief\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eplunges on you, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elunges;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe bitter smell in which\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI always find\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis odor, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis smells—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esweet, sharp,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esour.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis washed hair\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis bathed flesh\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe simple spices\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the body—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe way he used to sweat after a game,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eremember?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBurning with excitement—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, he had smells for every season:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe earthy aromas of autumn hikes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erain evaporating from wool sweaters,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand when you worked the spring fields together,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eodor from the sweat of your brows,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe vapors of working men, filled the house—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut most of all I loved the summer,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith its notes of peaches\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand plums,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etheir juices running down his cheeks—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd when he came back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom a campfire with friends,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enight and smoke\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon his breath—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr when he returned\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom the beach,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea salty tang\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein his hair—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn his skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe scent of his baby blanket,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe smell of his diapers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen he drank only breast milk,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethen seemingly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eone moment later—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sheets of a boy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewoman:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes, when we are\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etogether, your sorrow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egrips my sorrow,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy pain bleeds into yours,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand suddenly the echo of\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis mended, whole body\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecomes from inside us,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand then one might briefly imagine—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe is here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(pause)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI would go\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto the end\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the world with you,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou know. But you are not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egoing to him, you are going\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esomewhere else, and there\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI will not go, I cannot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI will not.A Novel","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300576219365,"sku":"NP9780345805850","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345805850.jpg?v=1767726683","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/falling-out-of-time-isbn-9780345805850","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}