Grief, when it comes, is nothing like we expect it to be.

I never actually learned the rules of grammar, relying instead only on what sounded right.

What does it cost to lose those weeks, that light, the very nights in the year preferred over all others? Can you evade the dying of the brightness? Or do you evade only its warning? Where are you left if you miss the message the blue nights bring?

I don't have a very clear idea of who the characters are until they start talking.

Was there ever in anyone's life span a point free in time, devoid of memory, a night when choice was any more than the sum of all the choices gone before?

I came into adult life equipped with an essentially romantic ethic.

The wind shows us how close to the edge we are.