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)

there are two types of people in the world: those who prefer to be sad among others, and those who prefer to be sad alone.

And he isn't crying for her, not for his grandma, he's crying for himself: that he: too, is going to die one day. And before that his friends wil die, and the friends of his friends, and, as time passes, the children of his friends, and, if his fate is truly bitter, his own children. (58)