What she did not tell him balanced neatly with what she did.

The Fates and Furies, as well as the Graces and Sirens, glide with linked hands over life.

Did you?' the producer said. 'He's so clownish on the surface, all joke and dazzle. How in the world could you have seen it?'
'But I did. The moment I met him," she said. "A fucking supernova. Every day since.' She thought, but did not say, almost.

Her mother had smelled of cold and scales, her father of stone dust and dog. She imagined her husband's mother, whom she had never met, had a whiff of rotting apples, though her stationary had stunk of baby powder and rose perfume. Sally was starch, cedar, her dead grandmother sandalwood, her uncle, swiss cheese. People told her she smelled like garlic, like chalk, like nothing at all. Lotto, clean as camphor at his neck and belly, like electrified pennies at the armpit, like chlorine at the groin. She swallowed. Such things, details noticed only on the edges of thought would not return.
'Land,' Mathilde said, 'odd name for a guy like you.'
'Short for Roland,' the boy said.
Where the August sun had been steaming over the river, a green cloud was forming. It was still terrifically hot, but the birds had stopped singing. A feral cat scooted up the road on swift paws. It would rain soon.
'Alright Roland,' Mathilde said, suppressing as sigh, 'sing your song.

I see history as really cyclical in terms of the intense idealism, and the desire to create a better life outside of societal norms.

It would probably be wiser to be in balance, but extremes are so much fun! At least it seems like it from all the way over here.