Това, което понякога ме тревожеше, бе простата дружелюбност на всичко това. Живеехме в свят на доброта и домашен ред. Понякога се виждах като Снежанк… - Michael Cunningham

She has failed. She wishes she didn't mind. Something, she thinks, is wrong with her.

It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and Clarissa is still sometimes shocked, more than thirty years later to realize that it was happiness; that the entire experience lay in a kiss and a walk. The anticipation of dinner and a book. The dinner is by now forgotten; Lessing has been long overshadowed by other writers. What lives undimmed in Clarissa's mind more than three decades later is a kiss at dusk on a patch of dead grass, and a walk around a pond as mosquitoes droned in the darkening air. There is still that singular perfection, and its perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows: That was the moment, right then. There has been no other.

She is overtaken by a sensation of unbeing. There is no other word for it.