And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time’s malleability.

He always thought that Touie's long illness would somehow prepare him for her death. He always imagined that grief anf guilt, if they followed, would be more clear-edged, more defined, more finite. Instead they seem like weather, like clouds constantly re-forming into new shapes, blown by nameless, unidentifiable winds.

Most people, in my opinion, steal much of what they are. If they didn't what poor items they would be.

Because love is the meeting point of truth and magic. Truth, as in photography; magic, as in ballooning.

And that's a life, isn't it? Some achievements and some disappointments. It's been interesting to me, though I wouldn't complain or be amazed if others found it less so. Maybe, in a way, Adrian knew what he was doing. Not that I would have missed my own life for anything, you understand. [pp.60-61]

Life seemed even more of a guessing game than usual.

To own a certain book - and to choose it without help - is to define yourself.