[the kindness of strangers]

[had become practical. There was no room for tenderness or pause. It was all about doing: action on action, brick on brick, day upon burnished, unyielding day.

In those months it was the kindness of strangers that kept him afloat. Speaking to an old woman on the train, or the man who ran the fruit shop, gave him a sense of corporality. He still existed; he was still flesh. He still had whatever it was that made people turn to regard him when he addressed them, and smile politely, and respond with gentle interest.

He was not a ghost. He was not a machine. He kept making these promises to himself in spite of]