There are betrayals in war that are childlike compared with our human betrayals during peace. The new lover enters the habit of the other. Things are smashed, revealed in new light. This is done with nervous and tender sentences, although the heart is an organ of fire.

A love story is not about those who lose their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing—not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past.