If you can't imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.

All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon.

I try hard and aim big. People can hate or love my books but they can never accuse me of not trying.

I'm having bigger problems when I'm writing.

Can a wolfe be beautiful?

Five hundred souls. I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the the children I carried in my arms.

She didn't dare to look up, but she could feel their frightened eyes hanging onto her as she hauled the words in and breathed them out. A voice played the notes inside her. This, it said, is your accordion.