And she did not weep for herself, but for him: the hour after his birth she had looked in his dark eyes and had seen something that would brood eternally, she knew, unfathomable wells of remote and intangible loneliness: she knew that in her dark and sorrowful womb a stranger had come to life, fed by the lost communications of eternity, his own ghost, haunter of his own house, lonely to himself and to the world. O lost.
Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe
