We stumble on, thinks Jaslyn, bring a little noise into the silence, find in others the ongoing of ourselves. It is almost enough.

Part of the beauty of fiction is that we come alive in a body that we don't own.

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.

She likes the people with the endurance to tolerate the drudge, the ones who know that pain is a requirement, not a curse.

She's always thought that one of the beauties of New York is that you can be from anywhere and within moments of landing its yours.

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

She wanted to tell him so mach, on the tarmac, the day he left. The world is run by brutal men and the surest proof is their armies. If they ask you to stand still, you should dance. If they ask you to burn the flag, wave it. If they ask you to murder, re-create.