... a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.

“Nothing could be slow enough, nothing lasts too long. No pleasure could equal, …”

“There was a star riding through clouds one night, ”

“To leave a door shut that might be open is in my eyes some form of blasphemy.”

“Poteva essere se stessa, starsene per conto suo. Ed era proprio questa la cosa …”