It was a windy, damp evening with no trace of June in it, and as they drove into the pale, almost imperceptible sunset he toyed with the idea of leaving without saying a word, of truly deserting Nathan - as his own father had done, in a different way, a year ago. The thought of his own insubstantiality, of his capacity simply to vanish, was horrible and seductive.

____

The best man in the world could fill a thousand pages with fine resolutions and still feel forced to leave his home in shame.


-Michael Chabon, "More Than Human"