[ot]

[Claudia Westermann]

Rhoda:

I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my 
ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for 
a moment and then sink. Rolling over the waves will shoulder me under. 
Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me.


Bernard:

Nevertheless, life is pleasant, life is tolerable. Tuesday follows Monday; 
then comes Wednesday. The mind grows rings; the identity becomes robust; 
pain is absorbed in growth. Opening and shutting, shutting and opening, 
with an increasing hum and sturdiness, the haste and fever of youth are 
drawn into service until the whole being seems to expand in and out like 
the mainspring of a clock. How fast the stream flows from January to 
December! We are swept on by the torrent of things grown so familiar that 
they cast no shadow. We float, we float. . .