Yet she likes complications. She wishes she could turn and say: I like people who unbalance me.

They told me Corrigan smashed all the bones in his chest when he hit the steering wheel. I thought, Well at least in heaven his Spanish chick'll be able to reach in and grab his heart.

The war was about vanity, he said. It was about old men who couldn't look in the mirror anymore and so they sent the young out to die. Was was a get-together of the vain. They wanted it simple--hate your enemy, know nothing of him.

He felt for a moment uncreated. Another kind of awake.

Things in life have no real beginning, though our stories about them always do.

He looks like the sort of man who can't afford to leave, and doesn't want to stay, and so he is doing both at once.

...and it strikes her, as she walks, that borders, like hatred, are exaggerated precisely because otherwise they would cease to exist altogether.