Thomas Pynchon

From conspiracies so mild, so domestic, from the serpent coiled in the teacup, the hand’s paralysis or eye’s withdrawal at words, words that could frighten that much, to the sort of thing Spectro found every day in his ward, extinguished now... to what Pointsman finds in Dogs Piotr, Natasha, Nikolai, Sergei, Katinka—or Pavel Sergevich, Varvara Nikolaevna,

If she leaves, then it ceases to matter how the rockets fall.