I missed you even when I was with you. That’s been my problem. I miss what I already have, and I surround myself with things that are missing.

It made me start to wonder if there were other people so lonely so close. I thought about “Eleanor Rigby.” It’s true, where do they all come from? And where do they all belong?

I'm a novelist, I'm not an activist. I'm not a non-fiction writer, I'm not a journalist. I'm not a foodie, I'm not even really an animal person, or an environmentalist. I did the best I could with this, but it's not who I am.

Every moment before this one depends on this one.

We burned with love for ourselves, all of us, starters of the fire we suffered- our love was the affliction for which only our love was the cure.

It is not a thing that you can imagine. It only is. After that, there can be no imagining.

What were we spending so much time doing if not getting to know each other?