"Back and forth she went each morning by the river, spring arriving once again; foolish, foolish spring, breaking open its tiny buds, and what she couldnâ€™t stand was howâ€”for many years, reallyâ€”she had been made happy by such a thing. She had not thought she would ever become immune to the beauty of the physical world, but there you were. The river sparkled with the sun that rose, enough that she needed her sunglasses."

Source : Elizabeth Strout (2008). “Olive Kitteridge: Fiction”, p.258, Random House

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