She is gambling that he is good. There on the table, neither frozen nor yet moving. Lane Dean Jr. sees all this, and is moved with pity and also with something more, something without any name he knows, that is given to him to feel in the form of a question that never once in all the long week’s thinking and division had even do much as occurred — why is he so sure he doesn’t love her? Why is one kind of love any different? What if he has no earthly idea what love is? What would even Jesus do? For it was just now he felt her two small strong soft hands on his, to turn him. What if he is just afraid, if the truth is no more than this, and if what to pray for is not even love but simple courage, to meet both her eyes as she says it and trust his heart?
David Foster Wallace, “The Pale King”
We never keep to the present. We recall the past; we anticipate the future as if we found it too slow in coming and were trying to hurry it up, or we recall the past as if to stay its too rapid flight. We are so unwise that we wander about in times that do not belong to us, and do not think of the only one that does; so vain that we dream of times that are not and blindly flee the only one that is. The fact is that the present usually hurts. We thrust it out of sight because it distresses us, and if we find it enjoyable, we are sorry to see it slip away. We try to give it the support of the future, and think how we are going to arrange things over which we have no control for a time we can never be sure of reaching… . Thus we never actually live, but hope to live, and since we are always planning how to be happy, it is inevitable that we should never be so.
The human being is a web of flesh spun over a void