I live in a world where two truths coexist: where both hell and hope lie in the palm of my hand

I like gardening - it's a place where I find myself when I need to lose myself.

There wasn't a lot of bullshit in my heaven.

Books and novels in particular that grapple with quite a few things are difficult to explain, so I think that first line can come in a substitute for trying to form a longer sense of what the book is about.

There was our father, the heart we knew held all of us. Held us heavily and desperately, the doors of his heart opening and closing with the rapidity of stops on an instrument, the quiet felt closures, the ghostly fingering, practice and practice and then, incredibly, sound and melody and warmth.

You're not supposed to look back, you're supposed to keep going.

Who would have thought something that happened that long ago could have such power?