It's a sad fact of modern life that if you drive long enough, sooner or later you must leave London behind.
Something must always remain that eludes us. . . For power to have an object on which it can be exercised, a space in which to stretch out its arms. . . As long as I know there exists in the world someone who does tricks only for the love of the trick, as long as I know there is a woman who loves reading for reading's sake, I can convince myself that the world continues. . . And every evening I, too, abandon myself to reading, like that distant unknown woman.