The scolding voice is her own, so abrasive and quick, yet so powerless to move her.

It is inevitable that each of us will be misunderstood; this, it seems, is part of twentieth-century wisdom.

He nurtures his connection from a distance...The rhythm is fixed in his life now - a support and distraction, the way in which he confirms his most human feelings.

He is also calm, reflective and self-critical.  He knows very well what underlies the compulsive side of his nature, it is the wish to escape that which he can't comprehend, seeking safety in an unbendable estrangement.

And yet, within her anxiety, secured there like a gemstone, she carries the cool and curious power of occasionally being able to see the world vividly.  Clarity bursts upon her a spray of little stars.  She understands this, and thinks of it as one of the tricks of consciousness; there is something almost luxurious about it..  The narrative maze opens and permits her to pass through.  She may be crowded out of her own life -- she knows this for a fact and has always know it -- but she possesses, as a compensatory gift, the startling ability to draft alternative versions.

These are frightening times...when she feels herself annointed by loneliness.

He dares not concern himself with the future for fear of disturbing the present.

The recounting of a life is a cheat...even our own stories are obscenely distorted...

It is frightening, and also exhilarating, her ability to deceive those around her; this is something new, her lost hours, her vivid dreams and shreds of language, as though she'd been given two lives instead of one, the alternate life cloaked in secret.

The silence is perfect, and yet a torment ...