We, her children, are heroic, dersperate.

It's afterwards you realize that the feeling of happiness you had with a man didn't necessarily prove that you loved him.

The words emerge from her body without her realizing it, as if she were being visited by the memory of a language long forsaken.

Very early in my life it was too late.

Oh, how good it is to be with someone, sometimes.

A book consists of two layers: on top, the readable layer ... and underneath, a layer that was inaccessible. You only sense its existence in a moment of distraction from the literal reading, the way you see childhood through a child. It would take forever to tell what you see, and it would be pointless.

We, her children, are heroic, dersperate.