Maybe nothing ever happens once and is finished. Maybe happen is never once but like ripples maybe on water afterthe pebble sinks, the ripples moving on, spreading, the pool attached by a narrow umbilical water-cord to the next pool which the first pool feeds, has fed, did feed, let this second pool contain a different temperature of water, a different molecularity of having seen, felt, remembered, reflect in a different tone the infinite unchanging sky, itdoesn’t matter: that pebble’s watery echo whose fall it did not even see moves across its surface too at the original ripple space to the old ineradicable rhythm.
—Quentin Compson in William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!
the evening redness in the west 