From this point on, she whispered, we will either find or lose our souls.

He has been disassembled by her. And if she has brought him to this, what has he brought her to?

I have spent weeks in the desert, forgetting to look at the moon, he says, as a married man may spend days never looking into the face of his wife. These are not sins of omission but signs of pre-occuopation.

To write about someone like myself would be very limiting.

If any of you on your journeys see her-shout to me, whistle...he sang, and it became a habit for audiences to shout and whistle in response to those lines. There was nowhere he could hide in such a song that had all of its doors and windows open, so that he could walk out of it artlessly, the antiphonal responses blending with him as if he were no longer on stage.

Over the years, confusing fragments, lost corners of stories, have a clearer meaning when seen in a new light, a different place.

The first sentence of every novel should be: Trust me, this will take time but there is order here, very faint, very human.