Why is it you can never hope to describe the emotion Africa creates? You are lifted. Out of whatever pit, unbound from whatever tie, released from whatever fear. You are lifted and you see it all from above.

Maybe that's what happens with age, I thought. All your life you force yourself to forget people who have hurt you, but as you get older and weaker their memory surfaces again, like a bubble in the water. You have to surrender, because you feel to tired to fight it and push it down again. And maybe, unexpectedly, you find out that instead, of revamping your anger, those memories produce an unexpected sweetness.

We knew nothing of loss. Nobody has taught us about pain. Until that moment, death had just amounted to a scary sound.

I can't say why some memories float and other sink.

Children know so little, they must learn quickly to imitate grown-ups whenever they feel unsure in a situation.

I had fallen out of my secure world, precipitated beyond the territories I had only begun to control so skillfully. What a foolish step to take. What an insane move to make.

What kind of heart does one have to have in order to be able to get rid of these, without regret, as if they were empty beer cans?