You need to remember that. If you’re to have decent lives, you have to know who you are and what lies ahead of you, every one of you.

And if these incidents now seem full of significance and all of a piece, it's probably because I'm looking at them in the light of what came later.

Memory, I realize, can be an unreliable thing; often it is heavily coloured by the circumstances in which one remembers.

You're always in a rush, or else you're too exhausted to have a proper conversation. Soon enough, the long hours, the traveling, the broken sleep have all crept into your being and become part of you, so everyone can see it, in your posture, your gaze, the way you move and talk.

As a writer, I'm more interested in what people tell themselves happened rather than what actually happened.

Poor creatures. What did we do to you? With all our schemes and plans?

All I know is that I've wasted all these years looking for something, a sort of trophy I'd get only if I really, really did enough to deserve it. But I don't want it anymore, I want something else now, something warm and sheltering, something I can turn to, regardless of what I do, regardless of who I become. Something that will just be there, always, like tomorrow's sky. That's what I want now, and I think it's what you should want too. But it will be too late soon. We'll become too set to change. If we don't take our chance now, another may never come for either of us.