He wondered if what he had taken for the richness of silence was really the poverty of never being heard [...]. How could he have forgotten what he had always known: there is no match for the silence of God.

Mom?" I said. She turned. "Can I talk to you about something?" "Of course, darling. Come here." I took a few steps into the room. There was so much I wanted to say. "I need you to be --" I said, and then I started to cry. "Be what?" she said, opening her arms. "Not sad," I said.

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

Our kiss was niticlimactic. It wasn't that the kiss was bad, but it was just a note of punctuation in our long conversation, a parenthetical remark made in order to assure each other of a deeply felt agreement, a mutual offer of companionship, which is so much more rare than sexual passion or even love.

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

I read differently now, more painstakingly, knowing I am probably revisiting the books I love for the last time. (245)

Wittgenstein once wrote that when the eye sees something beautiful, the hand wants to draw it. I wish I could draw you.