[...] Anyway, somewhere back there, a very small girl had fought for and won a cat who kept her days and nights company; and then she lost it.
After a certain age — and for some of us that can be very young — there are no new people, beasts, dreams, faces, events: it has all happened before, they appeared before, masked differently, wearing different clothes, another nationality, another colour; but the same, the same, and everything is an echo and a repetition; and there is no grief even that it is not a recurrence of something long out of memory that expresses itself in unbelievable anguish, days of tears, loneliness, knowledge of betrayal and all for a small, thin, dying cat.
— from On Cats, by Doris Lessing.
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