For a long time now more than half his soul had dwelt upon
the other side. The more a man lives, the more a man creates,
the more a man loves and loses those whom he loves, the more
does he escape from death. With every new blow that we have
to bear, with every new work that we round and finish, we
escape from ourselves, we escape into the work we have created,
the soul we have loved, the soul that has left us. When all
is told, Rome is not in Rome: the best of a man lies outside
himself. Only Grazia had withheld him on this side of the
wall. And now in her turn . . . Now the door was shut
upon the world of sorrow.