She had what’s known as inner life and didn’t know it. She lived off herself as if eating her own entrails. When she went to work she looked like a gentle lunatic because as the bus went along she daydreamed in loud and dazzling dreams. These dreams, because of all that interiority, were empty because they lacked the essential nucleus of—of ecstasy, let’s say. Most of the time she had without realizing it the void that fills the souls of the saints.
The Hour of the Star
Trans. Benjamin Moser