it must have been a lie

like the steadfast writer, she is at home in the wind and in the rain; and, thanks to one moment of felicity, she will live on and on and on

and become flesh

But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness, not having meant to keep us waiting long.

Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping