[...] In short, it’s as if the whole world was incapable of understanding the distinctiveness of Guillaume and Anna’s love. It’s not the kind of romance you find in a film or a novel, between a man and a woman who love one another, are unfaithful, suffer, and part. It’s a loftier form of love than that, high up on a mountain ridge, as it were, and not contingent on anything, and certainly not on desire, for example. It’s above such things. True, they had made love a lot — and with what ardor, what joy and understanding! And true, too, this had played a major role in their affection for each other. But what really counted was hiking in the mountains together or going to see a giant anthill one day and standing there hand in hand among the rolling meadows. With no one else in the world would she have ventured along those dirt tracks; with no one else in the world would it have given her so much joy. [...]