You can’t divorce Margo the person from Margo the body. You can’t see one without seeing the other. You looked at Margo’s eyes and you saw both their blueness and their Margo-ness. In the end, you could not say that Margo Roth Spiegelman was fat, or that she was skinny, any more than you can say that the Eiffel Tower is or is not lonely. Margo’s beauty was a kind of sealed vessel of perfection – uncracked and uncrackable.

But monotony doesn't make for painlessness.

In the end the listening exposes you even more than it exposes the people you're trying to listen to.

The sun was a toddler insistently refusing to go to bed: It was past eight thirty and still light.

She waited for me to play out the string, to find the place where she had stopped and was waiting for me, to follow the breadcrumb tail until it dead-ended into her.

We look back to the most important moment in our history, and that becomes the dividing line between what we were and what we are now.

The town was paper, but the memories were not.