She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.

I watched the sheets breathe when she breathed, like how Dad used to say that trees inhale when people exhale, because I was too young to understand the truth about biological processes.

She let out a laugh, and then she put her hand over her mouth, like she was angry at herself for forgetting her sadness.

If people thought about food more like how we think about the environment, a lot of people would be eating differently and the whole system would look a lot different.

The Eskimos have four hundred words for snow, and the Jewshave four hundred for schmuck.

I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness. We made love in nothing places and turned the lights off. It felt like crying. We could not look at each other. It always had to be from behind. Like that first time. And I knew he wasn't thinking of me. He squeezed my sides so hard, and pushed so hard. Like he was trying to push me through to somewhere else. Why does anyone ever make love?

She extended a hand that I didn't know how to take, so I broke its fingers with my silence.