She slept awhile. I floated in the pool, feeling the uneasy suspense lift off me, the fret of going somewhere in groups—documented travel. The spot was so close to perfect we would not even want to tell ourselves how lucky we were, having been delivered to it. The best of new places had to be protected from our own cries of delight. We would hold the words for weeks or months, for a soft evening when a stray remark would set us to recollecting. I guess we believed, together, that the wrong voice can obliterate a landscape. The sentiment was itself unspoken, and one of the sources of our attachment.
— Don DeLillo, ‘Creation’ in The Angel Esmeralda. New York: Scribner, 2011, p. 8.
