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“He couldn’t imagine having no memory whatsoever. He thrived and lived in them and knew that the man he had become was only because of his many experiences. They defined him and destroyed him and without it, he would have no identity.”

“She had read stories of estranged lovers, mostly in books tourists left behind on dirt tracks and temples. She had sympathised with the heroines and heroes and felt sorry for them but all of it was fiction. She had reminded herself over and over, “This is fiction. Don’t feel so sad, silly girl. It’s just fiction.” And here she was suffering, a thousand times over now.”