And now, an excerpt from Ovid’s Metamorphosis:
Spreta latet silvis pudibundaque frondibus ora protegit et solis ex illo vivit in antris; sed tamen haeret amor crescitque dolore repulsae; extenuant vigiles corpus miserabile curae adducitque cutem macies et in aera sucus corporis omnis abit; vox tantum atque ossa supersunt: vox manet, ossa ferunt lapidis traxisse figuram. Inde latet silvis nulloque in monte videtur, omnibus auditur: sonus est, qui vivit in illa.
Got that? Probably not. I’ll help you out. Here’s a translation by Horace Gregory:
So she was turned away to hide her face, her lips, her guilt among the trees, even their leaves, to haunt caves of the forest, to feed her love on melancholy sorrow which, sleepless, turned her body to a shade, first pale and wrinkled, then a sheet of air, then bones, which some say turned to thin-worn rocks; and last her voice remained. Vanished in forest, far from her usual walks on hills and valleys, she’s heard by all who call; her voice has life.
Ah, Echo. One of my favorite myths.
And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love.
There is only silence. ~House of Leaves