Perhaps he was no more than they said he was: an oaf lucky enough to marry a woman who had once played duets with Sjogren. But if so, and his life, from now on, would never change, then, he realized, neither would he. He would remain frozen, preserved, at this moment – no, at the moment which nearly happened, which could have happened, last week. There was nothing in the world, nothing, wife, nor church, nor society could do, to prevent him from deciding that his heart would never move again.

(Julian Barnes. The Lemon Table.)

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