I could hardly wait to be gone

The once magnificient image of my love lay now in the hollow of my arm, defenceless as a patient on an operating table, hardly breathing. It was useless even to repeat her name which once held so much fearful magic that it had the power to slow the blood in my veins. She had become a woman at last, lying there, soiled and tattered, like a dead bird in a gutter, her hands crumpled in two claws. It was as if some huge iron door had closed forever in my heart.
I could hardly wait for that slow dawn to bring me release. I could hardly wait to be gone.

E uma página antes ela tinha-lhe dito:

Perhaps our sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.


Lawrence Durrell, "Clea", The Alexandria Quartet, Faber & Faber, 2009 (primeira publicação: 1960)

De outro modo, não é uma questão moralista, para efeitos de moral, a queda de Justine. É outra coisa ainda: o ser para nós impossível o encontro com os nossos arquétipos quando somos já capazes de os ler, de os desmontar, brinquedos reduzidos ao seu tamanho real, partidos em cacos ao sol. Sobretudo se no tempo em que foram arquétipos nunca tivermos tido a intuição de que eram apenas de carne e osso (como aconteceu com Darley, o contrário para Pursewarden).