Last Night in Montreal

An absorbing meditation on absence and loss. Traveling (and the inverse problem of being unable to settle), an inside-out Lolita, a mystery that is the mystery of life (people come and they go, often without warning or explanation), the idea of being lost, being searched-for, wanting to remain un-found, coming to define yourself by those things. The complementary obsessions of searching for someone missing, and needing to remain free at any cost. Needing the story to end neatly even if it makes it harder for the people living it. The small changes of perspective that cast everything in a different light, that make all the difference between running away and saving yourself, between being rescued and being trapped. The limits of knowledge: of the world, of another person, of one's own story.

“That was her problem,” Eli said. “She couldn't immerse herself. It isn't enough to observe the world and take pictures of it.” He was quiet for a second and then said, “It isn't enough to just go ice-skating. Lilia's metaphor, not mine—she was talking about how she lived. About how you can skate over the surface of the world for your entire life, visiting, leaving, without ever really falling through. But you can't do that, it isn't good enough. You have to be able to fall through. You have to be able to sink, to immerse yourself. You can't just skate over the surface and visit and leave.”