For Eleanor, because this phrase always brings me back to your face, for our common love contained in words. Why the world would not end without them, and vice versa. For helping me, without which I could not go on.
He tried to think of something to say, but he remembered nothing. He had already experienced that feeling, something that went beyond the numbness and dull despair. The world was reduced to a bare core entity analyzed. The names of things slowly followed the same things into oblivion. The colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. And finally, the names of what they think. More fragile than he ever thought. How much of this was gone? The sacred language stripped of its referents and so of its reality. Folded back on itself as a being who seeks to preserve the heat. Before closing his eyes forever.
Cormac McCarthy, The Road
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