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He had taken her to be eternal, and this deep sense of the permanence of love had been the essence of all his joys, even those apparently unconnected with her. To lead a life without her he would have to remake himself entirely. But there was no vital being left. She had been the hidden sun of his world. He had thought that world was beautiful just for him, an offering to his youth and his hope, whereas it was only she who had lent it brightness. Her affection and her intelligence had gilded everything. Now all that beauty was withdrawn into her veiled, forbidden figure and the world was ashen. He turned to and fro in despair, seeking a familiar support which should enable him to live though such misery, but the support was [her].
—Iris Murdoch
—Iris Murdoch
Tuesday, April 14, 2020
