Perhaps it was freedom itself that choked her.

How was it possible to be afraid and in love... The two things did not go together. How was it possible to be afraid, when the two of them grew stronger together every day? And every night. Every night was different, and every morning. Together they possessed a miracle.

One situation – maybe one alone – could drive me to murder: family life, togetherness.

What was it to love someone, what was love exactly, and why did it end or not end? Those were the real questions, and who could answer them?

I can't write if someone else is in the house, not even the cleaning woman.

January. It was all things. And it was one thing, like a solid door. Its cold sealed the city in a gray capsule. January was moments, and January was a year. January rained the moments down, and froze them in her memory: [...]Every human action seemed to yield a magic. January was a two-faced month, jangling like jester's bells, crackling like snow crust, pure as any beginning, grim as an old man, mysteriously familiar yet unknown, like a word one can almost but not quite define.

I have no television - I hate it.