Their sleep, Barker Flett likes to think, is made up of softer denser stuff than other people's sleep. There's something clean about it like scrubbed fleece. Is this what love is, he wonders, this substance that lies so pressingly between them, so neutral in color yet so palpable it need never be mentioned? Or is love something less, something slippery and odorless, a transparent gas riding through the world on the back of a breeze, or else - and this is what he more and more believes - just a word trying to remember another word.
- The Stone Diaries, Carol Shields
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