You can't spend the rest of your life tiptoeing around to try and avert disaster. It won't work. You'll just end up missing the life you have.

Norah looked at her son’s tiny face, surprised, as always, by his name. he had not grown into it yet, he still wore it like a wrist band, something that might easily slip off and disappear. She had read about people – where? she could not remember this either – who refused to name their children for several weeks, feeling them to be not yet of the earth, suspended still between two worlds.

The place was a familiar as breath but as far from his life now as the moon.

Writing is always a process of discovery—I never know the end, or even the events on the next page, until they happen. There’s a constant interplay between the imagining and shaping of the story.

Norah watched him, serious and utterly absorbed in his task, overcome by the simple fact of his existence.

A moment might be a thousand different things.

That there were other worlds, invisible, unknown, beyond imagination even, was a revelation to him.