She was fluent in four languages and yet her fists against the rusted hood were the fullest articulation of her defeat.

Invader and invaded held on to their fistfuls of earth, but in the end, the earth outlived the hands that held it.

She wouldn't climb out of the bed for her sister, but she had climbed into a crater. She wouldn't cross a room, but she had crossed a continent.

But there had to be a quota. An upper limit to the number of miracles one is privileged to in a lifetime. How many times can a beloved reappear?

We twist our souls around each other’s miseries.

Work isn't meaningful just because you spend your life doing it.

He was losing her incrementally. It might be a few stray hairs listless on the pillow, or the crescents of bitten fingernails tossed behind the headboard, or a dark shape dissolving in soap. As a net is no more than holes tied together, they were bonded by what was no longer there." (ARC p. 63)