What it was about those uncanny scenes, and not just in movies but also in novels and stories, was a parallel with real life happenings. That instinctual compulsion to return to a prior state of being. Marie knew that whatever pleasure she attained in her life, no matter how much happiness she found, there would always be a part of her that wished to return to her marriage during the last months of her husband’s life. And that wasn’t because it was such an important time, or even an enjoyable one, because it wasn’t.
It was because she was whole then, or so it seemed in her imagination. And now she was fragmented. Her desire had seemed innocent then, whereas now it was adult, protean, reaching out like the limbs of an octopus.
The hollowness of the house was an echo of Marie’s own inner being. Whatever had inhabited it before had moved away leaving behind suggestions, reflections, allusion and memory.