I think in the whole field of questions about what we take to be "real," one of those questions is about the self. When you talk about the self we're always talking about whether it's a construction and it's a construction we're always in the process of working on. I don't think that work ever ends, to some degree.

The price we paid for the volumes of ourselves that we suffocated in the dark.

...larger than life...I've never understood that expression. What's larger than life?

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. It took seven languages to make me; it would be nice if I could have spoken just one.

All I want is not to die on a day when I went unseen.

Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. She was standing in the sun scratching her legs. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. Her hair was being pulled. Or she was pulling someone's hair. And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted--wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don't look at me. If you don't, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.

Perhaps that is what it means to be a father - to teach your child to live without you.