Each time they lay down there together, as if she obeyed a voice that came out of the quilt telling her to put the light out, she would extinguish the candle flame between her finger-tips. All around them, the tactility of the dark.

What hours have I paced those platforms, endlessly, hopelessly, where the draughts of Siberia and the solstice heats of Ecuador focus their unscrupling rigours on the eructated passenger.

The quote suggests that enactment becomes recognized as reenactment, recognized as a matter of againness, through explicit theatricality.

All falseness collapses under the weight of denied truth.