Finished this book last friday and once in a while when a book ends you are tinged with a certain feeling that's best echoed by our Seshappan Iyer (the bard of avon for others):
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
ps: notes to self, you are not supposed to understand this. The father character always takes a break from his long drive to smoke outside the car rather than inside, thus subtly delineating the difference between the creative and the created spaces.
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