I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives. --James Joyce, Ulysses, Aeolus episode
As I was pressing the shutter button for my second shot of a father with his cute little son, we all felt a violent lurch. The tires screeched and the bus shuddered at the edge of the precipice, then stopped. There was no guard rail, and the drop to the rocks below was several hundred meters. Angry shouts between our driver and the occupant of the Mercedes. Then we resumed our journey, as if nothing at all unusual had happened.