He had proved nothing, he had made no viable gesture of atonement, and he knew now that he probably never would. If he could have talked with Quint's ghost now he could only have said: "I'm sorry; there's nothing more I can do."
And Quint, he knew, would have said: "Right; you're absolutely right about that. (...)"
How then could he feel so good. What possible right did he have to be at peace with himself?
He didn't know. All he knew that day (...) all he knew with any clarity was that he was nineteen years old, that the war was over, and that he was alive.

Auteur: Richard Yates