When you pick up a novel from the bed side table, you put down your own life at the same time and you become another person for the duration.

Watching Italians eat (especially men, I have to say) is a form of tourism the books don't tell you about. They close their eyes, raise their eyebrows into accent marks, and make sounds of acute appreciation. It's fairly sexy. Of course I don't know how these men behave at home, if they help with the cooking or are vain and boorish and mistreat their wives. I realized Mediterranean cultures have their issues. Fine, don't burst my bubble. I didn’t want to marry these guys, I just wanted to watch. (p. 247)

Even feigning surprise, pretending it was unexpected and saying a ritual thanks, is surely wiser than just expecting everything so carelessly.

You know things are bad when a woman without any legs and who recently lost two of her own kids feels sorry for you.

Our house is like an empty cigarette packet, lying around reminding you what's not in it.

The older I get, the more I appreciate my rural childhood. I spent a lot of time outdoors, unsupervised, which is a blessing.

Small change, small wonders - these are the currency of my endurance and ultimately of my life.