"It never does," Claire said, looking out at the grey, forbidding sea. "It just rearranges itself."
The beach remained, indifferent to the people who walked upon it, waiting for the next tide to rearrange the shore once again. Key Themes of the Setting On Chesil Beach
"Talking didn't save us," Arthur said quietly. "We just used words to build a different kind of wall." "It never does," Claire said, looking out at
Arthur stood at the crest of the ridge, his boots sinking slightly into the shingle. To his left, the pebbles were the size of peas; miles to his right, at Portland, they would be as large as oranges. He checked his watch. It was July, nearly sixty years since the summer that had defined—and then erased—his future. "We just used words to build a different kind of wall
Arthur watched her walk away. He didn't follow her this time. He simply stood on the ridge, listening to the pebbles grind against each other, a sound that Ian McEwan once used to signify the "elegiac tone" of lost opportunities.
"I'm glad we didn't stay," she said, turning back toward the car park. "But I'm glad we came back to check."