America has entered one of its periods of historic madness, but this is the worst I can remember.

Home's where you go when you run out of homes.

Sometimes we have to do a thing in order to find out the reason for it. Sometimes our actions are questions, not answers.

Only Esmeralda was not weeping. Instead she wore that wooden look that whites mistake for churlishenss or indifference. Woodrew knew it was neither. It was familiarity. This how real life is constituted, it said. This is grief and hatred and people hacked to death. This is the everyday we have known since we were born and you Wazungu have not.

It's a principle of mine to come into the story as late as possible, and to tell it as fast as you can.

Coming home from very lonely places, all of us go a little mad: whether from great personal success, or just an all-night drive, we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen.

I am still making order out of chaos by reinvention.