To start with, look at all the books.

Basically what we have here is a dreamer. Somebody out of touch with reality. When she jumped, she probably thought she'd fly

It didn't matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls, but only that we had loved them, and that they hadn't heard us calling, still do not hear us, up here in the tree house with our thinning hair and soft bellies, calling them out of those rooms where they went to be alone for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death, and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together.

girls forbidden to dance would only attract husbands with bad complexions and sunken chests.

that since Cecilia’s suicide, the Lisbon’s could hardly wait for the night to forget themselves in sleep

Novelists are always resisting autobiographical readings of their work, because they know how false those can be.

But what humans forget, cells remember. The body, that elephant