In one of the places where I was broadening my mind I met one night with a bad accident. I broke my left leg (or, if you like, it was broken for me) in six places and when I was well enough again to go my way I had one leg made of wood, the left one.—Flann O’Brien, The Third Policeman
So two sentences. But to my mind both are necessary for each other, intractable as binary stars. Notice the double repetition of the word “one” in the first sentence and the same repetition of the same word in the second, how the “ones” in the first sentence are crunched together in the beginning and then are flung to the outward edges of the second. They orbit each other, all of those ones on the outside and a whole lot of tragedy in between. Notice the mirror-like quality of the middle of the passage, how the first sentence ends with an independent clause (“I met with a bad accident”) and how the second sentence begins with one (“I broke my left leg”). Notice how the sentences break with the leg. There’s a subtle symmetry at work here, a symmetry that spirals out from the core of these sentences but that also draws both of them in.