and it seemed part of the present, part of the gray cold and the beggar woman without a face
and the moulting birds frozen to their own filth in the Orangerie. I know now I was in the throes of
some small glandular crisis, a sublimated bilious attack, a flick from the whip of melancholia,
but then it was terrifying...nameless....”
― M.F.K. Fisher
is not for the soulless.