That he liked to think of himself as a philosopher. That he questioned all things, even the most simple, to the extent that when someone passing him on the street raised his hat and said, 'Good day,' Litvinoff often paused so long to weigh evidence that by the time he'd settled on an answer the person had gone on his way, leaving him standing alone.

To me, this is the singular privilege of reading literature: we are allowed to step into another's life.

The unique thing that literature provides is to be able to step so fully into another situation and condition.

To touch and feel each thing in the world, to know it by sight and by name, and then to know it with your eyes closed so that when something is gone, it can be recognized by the shape of its absence. So that you can continue to possess the lost, because absence is the only constant thing. Because you can get free of everything except the space where things have been.

It's one of those unforgettable moments that happen as a child, when you discover that all along the world has been betraying you.

...after all, who isn't a survivor from the wreck of childhood?

. . . she gave him one of those broad smiles she reserved for strangers, as if she were aware of being able to pass, in their eyes, for an ordinary woman.