Henry loves my hair almost as though it is a creature unto itself, as though it has a soul to call its own, as though it could love him back.

The space that I can call mine.. is so small that my ideas have become small. I am like a caterpillar in a cocoon of paper; all around me are sketches for sculptures, small drawings that seem like moths fluttering against the windows, beating their wings to escape from this tiny space.. Every day the ideas come more reluctantly, as though they know I will starve them and stunt their growth.

CLARE: The library is cool and smells like carpet cleaner, although all I can see is marble.

What are you doing?" Nothing. Breaking and entering. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

Martin said, "It feels as though part of my self has detached and gone to Amsterdam, where it—she—is waiting for me. Do you know about phantom-limb syndrome?" Julia nodded. "There's pain where she ought to be. It's feeding the other pain, the thing that makes me wash and count and all that. So her absence is stopping me from going to find her. Do you see?

‎I never wanted to have anything in my life that I couldn't stand losing. But it's too late for that.

He looks sad. Or maybe that's just how he looks when he isn't doing something else with his face.