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.

I forced myself to picture the last moments. The penultimate breath. A final sigh. And yet. It was always followed by another.

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.

THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD GURSKY Leopold Gursky started dying on August 18, 1920. He died learning to walk. He died standing at the blackboard. And once, also, carrying a heavy tray. He died practicing a new way to sign his name. Opening a window. Washing his genitals in the bath. He died alone, because he was too embarrassed to phone anyone. Or he died thinking about Alma. Or when he chose not to.

All the times I have suddenly realized that my parents are dead, even now, it still surprises me, to exist in the world while that which made me has ceased to exist

The accolades, just like the scrapes and bruises, fade in the end, and all you're left with is your ambition.

Empty teacups gathered around her and dictionary pages fell at her feet.