He could not understand the wild quiver of his heart, nor the following sense of recklessness and grace that lingered after she was gone.

It was like that kid had been born knowing how to read. He was only in the second grade but he loved to read stories by himself – and he never asked anybody else to read to him.

She had always kept things to herself. That was one sure truth.

Because in some men it is in them to give up everything personal at some time, before it ferments and poisons – throw it to some human being or some human idea. They have to.

There was none of the quiet insolence about this man.

The others all have something they hate. And they all have something they love more than eating or sleeping or wine or friendly company. That is why they are always so busy.

Singer never knew just how much his friend understood of all the things he told him. But it did not matter.

The warring love and hatred – love for his people and hatred for the oppressors of his people – that left him exhausted and sick in spirit.

Frances wanted the whole world to die.

The three of them sat at the kitchen table, saying the same things over and over, so that by August the words began to rhyme with each other and sound strange.