'love Is A Myth,' Grandfather Trout Said.

She Had Always Lived Her Best Life In Dreams. She Knew No Greater Pleasure Than That Moment Of Passage Into The Other Place, When Her Limbs Grew Warm And Heavy And The Sparkling Darkness Behind Her Lids Became Ordered And Doors Opened; When Conscious Thought Grew Owl's Wings And Talons And Became Other Than Conscious.

God, He Thought, Her Eyes Are So Bright, Flashing, Deep, Full Of Promise, All Those Things Eyes Are In Books But Never Are In Life, And She Was His.

The Further In You Go, The Bigger It Gets.

It Was Anyway All A Long Time Ago; The World, We Know Now, Is As It Is And Not Different; If There Was Ever A Time When There Were Passages, Doors, The Borders Open And Many Crossing, That Time Is Not Now. The World Is Older Than It Was. Even The Weather Isn’t As We Remember It Clearly Once Being; Never Lately Does There Come A Summer Day Such As We Remember, Never Clouds As White As That, Never Grass As Odorous Or Shade As Deep And Full Of Promise As We Remember They Can Be, As Once Upon A Time They Were.

Violet Said Nothing, Though Big Pearly Tears, Like A Child's, Trembled At Her Lashes. She Suddenly Missed John Very Much. Into Him She Could Pour All The Inarticulate Perceptions, All The Knowings And Unknowings She Felt, Which, Though He Couldn't Understand Them Really, He Would Receive Reverently, And Out Of Him Would Come Then The Advice, The Warnings, The Clever Decisions She Could Never Have Made.