Edita's Reviews > The Night in Lisbon

Don't we always lose what we think we have hold of? Do we lose it because it moves? And does it stand still only when it's gone and can no longer change? Is it only then that it really belongs to us?
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Strange how complicated we can make things just to avoid showing what we feel!
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I didn't answer. I hadn't been either, but I knew that I must never admit it. Now least of all. We were both absolutely open and defenseless. If we should ever live together, we could always go back to this moment in a noisy restaurant in Münster for strength and reassurance. It would be a mirror; we could look into it, and it would show us two images: what fate had wanted us to be and what it had made of us.
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You think fate owes you something. But the fact is that it doesn't owe you a thing.
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You know those hours— when hope dies—you've been through it.