And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.

As always, one of her books was next to her.

The human child – so much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.

A book floated down the Amper River. A boy jumped in, caught up to it, and held it in his right hand. He grinned. He stood waist-deep in the icy, Decemberish water. “How about a kiss, Saumensch?” he said.

She was a girl with a mountain to climb.

When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.

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