Lovers are weapons, but love is a wound.

Maybe it is desperation. Maybe we can't let things fall apart without trying. We can't let go of the people we love.

We figure out what death means when we're born, practically, and we live our whole lives in some kind of weird denial about it.

There’s a limit to how much living can be done in a life without freedom.

Rhine. The river that, somewhere out there, has broken free.

His three wives are huddled together on the bare mattress, one of them dying; when we're together, we form an alliance he can't touch. He's scared to even try.

The sullen boy sitting before me is not my husband, and the girl he is fretting over isn't me, will never be me.