"The writer is always to some extent in exile, wherever he is, because he is somehow outside, separated from others; there is always a distance."

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There was no wind; there was no passing shadow on the deep shade of the night; there was no noise. The city lay behind him, lighted here and there, and starry worlds were hidden by the masonry of spire and roof that hardly made out any shapes against the sky. Dark and lonely distance lay around him everywhere, and the clocks were faintly striking two.

— Charles Dickens