“In those days, we imagined ourselves as being kept in some kind of holding
pen, waiting to be released into our lives. And when that moment came, our
lives—and time itself—would speed up. How were we to know that our lives had in
any case begun, that some advantage had already been gained, some damage already
inflicted? Also, that our release would only be into a larger holding pen, whose
boundaries would be at first undiscernible.”
This and other passages in Julian Barnes’s ...
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