People come to Paris, to the capital, to give their lives a sense of belonging, of an almost mythical participation in society.

When it's in a book I don't think it'll hurt any more ...exist any more. One of the things writing does is wipe things out. Replace them.

...as long as nothing happens between them, the memory is cursed with what hasn't happened.

He wanted to pay her; he thought women ought to be paid for keeping men from dying or going out of their minds.

I've forgotten the words with which to tell you. I knew them once, but I've forgotten them, and now I'm talking to you without them.

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

I've known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you're more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged.