It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.
Don DeLilloAbout author
- Author's profession: Novelist
- Nationality: american
- Born: November 20, 1936
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Nature, uncontainable, flowing, forelooking, in the first sentiment of kindness anticipates already a benelovence which shall lose all particular regards in it's general light, the introduction to this felicity is in a private and tender relation of one to one; which is the enchantment of human life; which, like a certain divine rage and enthusiasm, seizes on man at one period, and works a revolution in his mind and body; unites him to his race.
Ralph Waldo Emerson