We were moderate, we will never know what it is to spill out our lives... - James Salter

The summer has ended. The garden withers. The mornings become chill. I am thirty, I am thirty-four -the years turn dry as leaves.'

«No hay felicidad como esta dicha: mañanas apacibles, la luz del río, el fin de semana por delante. Vivían una vida rusa, una vida fecunda, entrelazada, en la que un infortunio de uno de los miembros, un fracaso, una enfermedad, rompería el equilibrio de todos. Aquella vida era como una prenda de vestir. Su belleza estaba fuera, su calor dentro»

She was like a young tree demure in the sunlight, in a clearing, graceful and alone, but the moss on the earth around, the stones, buried roots, the distant groves, the forest — all of these had their influence and spoke to her still.