If we want know the meaning of existence, we must open a book: over there, in the darkest chapter, there’s a sentence written especially for us.

From the beginning, she had sat looking at him fixedly. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart. But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a bound the artificial barriers he had for many years been erecting, between himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which will elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet ever to be sounded shall blow even algebra to wreck. The barriers were too many and too high for such a leap. With his unbending, utilitarian, matter-of-fact face, he hardened her again; and the moment shot away into the plumbless depths of the past, to mingle with all the lost opportunities that are drowned there.

At that point we close the chapter or we close the book.

Mwisho wa sura si mwisho wa kitabu. Fungua ukurasa mwingine.

I didn't write the book in sequence. If I got stuck I started a new chapter. I didn't know where it was going, but eventually I figured it out,

I mean real magic of course-- because in a few pages, you'll discover that this is a magical pencil box hat, which is pretty lucky really, because you don't find too many of those nowadays.