I’m about to revisit Margaret Atwood‘s The Blind Assassin. And found this highlighted passage as I flipped through:
“Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. Time and distance blur the edges; then suddenly the beloved has arrived, and it’s noon with its merciless light, and every spot and pore and wrinkle and bristle stands clear.”
The Jam 