There was after all no mystery in the end of love, no mystery but the mystery of love itself, which was large certainly but as real as grass, as natu… - John Crowley

Stories inside, each one nested within all the others; as though all the stories we had ever been inside of lay still nested inside of us, back to the beginning, whenever that is or was. Stories are what the history not made of time is made of. Funny,

Once arrived in the City, he dispersed utterly and gratefully in it like a raindrop fallen into the sea.

What if it were true. It could not be: but what if it were. Strange but true.

A sudden partisanship arose within Pierce's heart, a longing so deep and simple that he could not even be puzzled by it: a longing indistinguishable from grief, that the story ought to be true, and could not be.