“To be in love was to be dazed twenty times a morning: by the latticework of frost on his windshield; by a feather loosed from his pillow; by a soft, pink rim of light over the hills. He slept three or four hours a night. Some days he felt as if he were about to peel back the surface of the Earth – the trees standing frozen on the hills, the churning face of the inlet – and finally witness what lay beneath, the structure under there, the fundamental grid.”
