It goes on.

I used to admire Wittgenstein's famous quote, "Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muß man schweigen." But now I'm beginning to believe just the opposite. What's important is not content or style but constancy. What's so fascinating about the writing of Genazino, for example, is how, without a story, the narrative must dance with the problem of what to say when, in the end, there is really nothing to say at all. At least this has always been a problem for me. One lonely winter in St. Petersburg, I fantasized about lying on the floor next to a friend lying in bed in a tiny room a few hours before dawn, talking. It was dark except for a little moonlight coming in from the tall window at our heads. We were exhausted but in no hurry to sleep. Over the years, I've had that fantasy several times, but it never developed so far as to contain any conversation beyond "Anna?" "Yes?" What we said didn't matter. My fantasy was saying and listening to what's said precisely when there is nothing to say. It seems to me only then there's real communication, the essence of which is that, like life, it goes on.