The dead leave us starving with mouths full of love.” from “Memoriam.

The winter street is a salt cave. The snow has stopped falling and it’s very cold. The cold is spectacular, penetrating. The street has been silenced, a theatre of whiteness, drifts like frozen waves. Crystals glisten under the streetlights.

Somewhere there is a man who is not afraid to live in a woman’s hope.

Rain in a foreign city is different from rain in a place you know. I can’t explain this, while snow is the same everywhere.

History is amoral: events occurred. But memory is moral; what we consciously remember is what our conscience remembers.

Love makes you see a place differently, just as you hold differently an object that belongs to someone you love.

Even that night, the night he touched one inch of her in the dark, how simply Avery seemed to accept the facts – that they were on the edge of lifelong happiness and, therefore, inescapable sorrow. It was as if, long ago, a part of him had broken off inside, and now finally, he recognized the dangerous fragment that had been floating in his system, causing him intermittent pain over the years. As if he could now say of that ache: “Ah. It was you.

I saved myself without thinking. I grasped the two syllables closest to me, and replaced my heartbeat with your name.

I can’t save a boy from a burning building. Instead he must save me from the attempt; he must jump to earth.

What is a man,” said Athos, “who has no landscape? Nothing but mirrors and tides.