p. 28:
There is always a halt there of at least a minute and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress.
For some reason the routine pause turns chance into inevitability – there’s something I always liked about this. Reminds me of one of the persistent themes of Paul Auster‘s writings, that life is formed by chance, and in a sense chance is the illusory veil of fate.
ginsudo 