Whenever we got a glimpse, their faces looked indecently revealed, as though we were used to seeing women in veils.

The more she thought about it, the more Madeleine understood that extreme solitude didn't just describe the way she was feeling about Leonard. It explained how she'd always felt when she was in love. It explained what love was like and, just maybe, what was wrong with it.

Now all the mute objects of my life seem to tell my story, to stretch back in time, if I look closely enough.

She understood that her heart operated on its own instructions, that she had no control over it or, indeed, anything else.

All wisdom ends in paradox.

To start with, look at all the books.

That was the deal basically: catatonia without; frenzy within