It is the same with streets. You have worked this street to death, and yet you have never remembered its existence. If you had a healthy democracy, even of pagans, they would have hung this street with garlands and given it the name of a god. Then it would have gone quietly. I looked at the long grey street, and for a moment it seemed to me to be exactly like the long grey neck of a horse flung up to heaven.
Streets go to the place they have to go.
I stopped, for he had flung up his head with the fury of the road in revolt. Since then I have respected the things called inanimate. And bowing slightly to the mustard-pot, the man in the restaurant withdrew.