I, a late riser, fantasise about getting up every morning at 5 A.M. to fetch the horses in from the fields.

I guess the difference between Gin and me is that when Gin got shut in the barn she thought Edmond didn't love her anymore but because I could feel Edmond out there somewhere always loving me I didn't have to howl all night.

Life is absolutely horrific, leading up to absolute horror.

The real truth is that the war didn't have much to do with it except that it provided a perfect limbo in which two people who were too young and too related could start kissing without anything or anyone making us stop.

If there was ever a more perfect day in the history of time it isn't one I've heard about.

The facts of his existence are plain. I know that he will never silence those unspeakable voices. He heard how people killed, and how they died and their voices infected him, coursed through his body, poisoned him. He didn't know how to turn off the noise, or turn the hate back out onto the world like the rest of us. He turned it on himself. You could see that from the scars on him.

I can't even trust my own imaginary dog. How much lower can a person get?