Every letter was a love letter. Of course, as love letters went, this one could have been better. It was not very promising, for instance, that Madeleine claimed not to want to see him for the next half-century.

It was like autumn, looking at her. it was like driving up north to see the colors.

She could become a spinster, like Emily Dickinson, writing poems full of dashes and brilliance, and never gaining weight.

I had a briefcase at one point, but it was a kind of 1980s New Wave briefcase. It was made of some kind of cardboard and it had metal hinges. It was kind of faux industrial looking, and I used to carry my books in it rather than a backpack. I didn't want to have normal student accoutrements.

If love were endless, if it were on tap, it wouldn't hit us the way it does. And we certainly wouldn't write about it.

The following doodle: a girl with pigtails is bent under the weight of a gigantic boulder. Her cheeks puff out, and her rounded lips expel steam. One widening steam cloud contains the word Pressure, darkly retraced.

Sourmelina's secret (as Aunt Zo put it): 'Lina was one of those women they named the island after.