I wept to think that life went on even when so much had been lost, that rain still fell and myrtle grew between the rocks.

My grief was cold. It was nothing to share. It was nothing to speak about, nothing to feel.

My grandmother was overwhelmed by what was happening to us. She ahd moved back into the past because the here and the now was too terrible.

We had to survive to remember. Otherwise everything we were would disappear. Those people we loved would fade as though we'd never loved them, as if they'd never walked and talked and burned, forgetting them was the real evil. That was the hole of darkness.

Do what you want, do what you will, do what you have to, do what you think you cannot.

I wrote to find beauty and purpose, to know that love is possible and lasting and real.... Once I got to my desk, once I started writing, I still believed anything was possible.

That is the joy of reading fiction: when all is said and done, the novel belongs to the reader and his or her imagination.