« . . .Life in Göttingen appeared to proceed on its blade-twinkling way, wheelfolks on brandnew bikes crashing into each other or careering out of control and scattering pedestrians, beer-drinkers quarreling and bowing, preoccupied Zetamaniacs forever on the verge of walking off the edge of the Promenade being rescued by companions, a town he had never loved all at once become a place, now he was obliged, it seemed, to live it, whose most quotidian detail shone with a clarity almost painful, already a place of exile's memory and not returning, and here just to make that official was the angel, if not of death at least of deep shit, and nobody else seemed to notice. . . »
(Thomas Pynchon, Against the Day)
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