Just like ice, lives crack, too. Personalities. Identities.

I'm hopefully making the reader feel a lot about the characters and then about their own life.

He had the feeling that there was something physically behind his eyes, blocking the light.

On the morning the last Lisbon daughter took her turn at suicide- it was Mary this time, and sleeping pills, like Therese- the two paramedics arrived at the house knowing exactly where the knife drawer was, and the gas oven, and the beam in the basement from which it was possible to tie a rope.

You used to be able to tell a person's nationality by the face. Immigration ended that. Next you discerned nationality via the footwear. Globalization ended that.

What if you had faith and performed good works, what if you died and went to heaven, and what if all the people you met there were people you didn't like?

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.