Thus, just as his mother begged him [in her letter, which he kept, unread, in his pocket]... Joe had turned his thoughts from Prague, his family, the war. Every golden age is as much a matter of disregard as of felicity. It was only when he was settling into the back of a taxicab, or reaching for his wallet, or brushing against a chair, that there came the crinkling of paper; the flutter of a wing; the ghostly foolscap whisper from home; and for a moment he would hang his head in shame.
p. 525, Kavalier and Clay, Michael Chabon, Dec./Jan. 2010-2011
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