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

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.

Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you.

We move through the day like two hands of a clock: sometimes we overlap for a moment, then come apart again, carrying on alone. Everyday exactly the same: the tea, the burnt toast, the crumbs, the silence.

What interests me in writing a novel is taking really remote voices, characters, and stories and beginning to create some kind of web.

There are times when the kindness of strangers only makes things worse because one realizes how badly one is in need of kindness and that the only source is a stranger.

Because you can get free of everything except the space where things have been