Midnight smoke

There is something sad, forlorn and mournful about Jesus, hanging on his tree, stretched muscles and sinews, ribs exposed and staring at the ivy covered brownstone next to graffitied factories under a gray clouded Brooklyn night, with no one to talk to.

It seemed to me an error in reasoning for a man to isolate a woman he loves from all the circumstances in which he met her and in which she lives, to try, with dogged inner concentration, to purify her of everything that is not her self, which is to say also of the story that they lived through together and that gives their love its shape. - Milan Kundera, The Joke