But in the end it wasn't up to me. The bigs things never are. Birth, I mean, and death. And love. And what love bequeaths to us before we're born.

We Greeks are a moody people. Suicide makes sense to us. Putting up Christmas lights after your own daughter does it--that makes no sense. What my yia yia could never understand about America was why everyone pretended to be happy all the time.” -Mrs. Karafilis

But I care about the reader, and I'm trying to keep the reader's attention for as long as I can.

There's a kind of acting that goes on in my head when I'm writing a character where I put myself in their place.

The lover`s discourse was of an extreme solitude. The solitude was extreme because it wasn`t physical. It was extreme because you felt it while in the company of the person you loved. It was extreme because it was in your head, the most solitary of places.

To start with, look at all the books.

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