All things

She thought of it again after her confrontation with Y, about his terrible branching universe, but she could see something very different in it now, a strange kind of freedom or absolution. If it really were true, as he insisted, that in the grandest scheme of things every possibility is realized, there seemed very little sting in the question whether she had been right to leave him. It was after all only in this space and time that this is what she chose–in another, she had not betrayed him, in still another she had never met him in the first place, and so on through what was almost certainly an infinite set of such variations.

No, what she had done was neither right nor wrong, just her infinitesimally small part in the cosmic unfolding of things.

The Italian Novel


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