Between the kitchen and the destroyed chapel a door led into an oval-shaped library. The space inside seemed safe except for a large hole at portrait level in the far wall, caused by mortar-shell attack on the villa two months earlier. The rest of the room had adapted itself to this wound, accepting the habits of weather, evening stars, the sound of birds.

This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.

All I ever wanted was a world without maps.

We all have an old knot in the heart we wish to untie.

Why are you not smarter? It's only the rich who can't afford to be smart. They're compromised. They got locked years ago into privilege. They have to protect their belongings. No one is meaner than the rich. Trust me. But they have to follow the rules of their shitty civilised world. They declare war, they have honour, and they can't leave. But you two. We three. We're free.

You don't want to write your own opinion, you don't want to just represent yourself, but represent yourself through someone else.

It doubles your perception, to write from the point of view of someone you're not.