The facts didn't matter. Their stories mattered, and each of their stories belonged to each of them alone.

The facts didn't matter. Their stories mattered, and each of their stories belonged to each of them alone.

All these lives," she said. "All the stories we never know." (125)

For years I did most of my reading on the F train between Brooklyn and Manhattan. I had long commutes, and I read tons of books on that train; I loved it.

The evenings grew longer; kitchen windows stayed open after dinner and peepers could be heard in the marsh. Isabelle, stepping out to sweep her porch steps, felt absolutely certain that some wonderful change was arriving in her life. The strength of this belief was puzzling; what she was feeling, she decided, was really the presence of God.

She didn't like to be alone. Even more, she didn't like being with people. (148)

I suspect the most we can hope for, and it's no small hope, is that we never give up, that we never stop giving ourselves permission to try to love and receive love.