The mother was looking at nothing and listening to nothing but herself. Itll kill me, doctor! Ill die of shame! I made no attempt to dissuade her. I didnt know what to do. We could see the father pacing back and forth in the little dining room next door. Apparently he hadnt finished composing his attitude for the occasion. Maybe he was waiting for things to come to a head before selecting a posture. He was in a kind of limbo. People live from one play to the next. In between, before the curtain goes up, they dont quite know what the plot will be or what part will be right for them, they stand there at a loss, waiting to see what will happen, their instincts folded up like an umbrella, squirming, incoherent, reduced to themselves, that is, to nothing. Cows without a train.

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Louis-Ferdinand Cline, Journey to the End of the Night.

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