He moved with the shades of the dead and the dead-born and the unborn and the never-to-be-born, in a limbo purged of desire . . . If that is what is meant by going back into one’s heart, could anything be better, in this world or the next? The mind, dim and hushed like a sick-room, like a chapelle ardente, thronged with shades; the mind at last its own asylum, disinterested, indifferent, its miserable erethisms and discriminations and futile sallies supressed; the mind suddenly reprieved, ceasing to be an annex of the restless body, the glare of understanding switched off.
— Samuel Beckett ‘Dream of Fair to Middling Women’