Her patience at the airfield, in this world of machines and offices that is beyond her, waiting without a word, as old women have for millennia all over the world, waiting for the world to pass. And then very small, a bit broken, on the immense ground, toward the howling monsters, holding her well-combed hair with one hand…
Maman. What was her silence saying. What was this mute and smiling mouth screaming. We will be resurrected.
--Camus, Notebooks, 1951-1959