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“The truth was that they were longing to be alone in their own silence. They were used to big, open fields, slowly living their own life beside them. There, they were cemented, flesh to flesh, knowing in advance what the other was thinking about, knowing the word before it had left the mouth, knowing it even when it was still being formed with difficulty deep down in the breast. Here, the noise had cut them apart like a knife, and they had needed to touch each other by the arm or hand all day long to satisfy their hearts a little.” — Jean Giono
The truth was that they were longing to be alone in their own silence. They were used to big, open fields, slowly living their own life beside them. There, they were cemented, flesh to flesh, knowing in advance what the other was thinking about, knowing the word before it had left the mouth, knowing it even when it was still being formed with difficulty deep down in the breast. Here, the noise had cut them apart like a knife, and they had needed to touch each other by the arm or hand all day long to satisfy their hearts a little.