Cecilia wondered, as she sometimes did when she met a man for the first time, if this was the one she was going to marry, and whether it was this particular moment she would remember for the rest of her life - with gratitude, or profound and particular regret.

He never believed in fate or providence, or the future being made by someone in the sky. Instead, at every instant, a trillion trillion possible futures; the pickiness of pure chance and physical laws seemed like freedom from the scheming of a gloomy god.

Writers are said to have superstitions and little rituals. Readers have them too.

Especially difficult when the first and best unconscious move of a dedicated liar is to persuade himself he's sincere. And once he's sincere, all deception vanishes.

The moment you lose curiosity in the world, you might as well be dead.

At the back of my mind I had a sense of us sitting about waiting for some terrible event, and then I would remember that it had already happened.

This is the pain-pleasure of having newly adult children; they're innocent and ruthless in forgetting their sweet old dependence.