... the desert, where there is the communal book of moonlight. We were among the rumour of wells. In the palace of winds.

I tend not to know what the plot is or the story is or even the theme. Those things come later, for me.

Every immigrant family, it seems, has someone who does not belong in the new country they have come to. It feels like permanent exile to that one brother or wife who cannot stand a silent fate in Boston or London or Melbourne. I’ve met many who remain haunted by the persistent ghost of an earlier place.

I am not in love with him, I am in love with ghosts. So is he, he's in love with ghosts.

This last night we tear into each other, as if to wound, as if to find the key to everything before morning.

Truth, at the wrong time, can be dangerous.

I believe in such cartography – to be marked by nature, not just label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. ... All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.