A non-entry.

From Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

“My wife’s back there.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. The cities won’t do well in the next few days,” said Granger.

“It’s strange, I don’t miss her, it’s strange I don’t feel much of anything,” said Montag. “Even if she dies, I realized a moment ago, I don’t think I’ll feel sad. It isn’t right. Something must be wrong with me.”

“Listen,” said Granger, taking his arm and walking with him, holding aside the bushes to let him pbum. “When I was a boy my grandfather died, and he was a sculptor. He was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give the world, and he helped clean up the slum in our town; and he made toys for us and he did a million things in his lifetime; he was always busy with his hands. And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn’t crying for him at all, but for all the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the backyard or play violin the way he did, or tell jokes the way he did. He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did.”