This world is not enough, but it will have to do. You can either hold on or let go.

I am not mad because I'm a woman... I'm mad because you're an asshole.

You need a certain amount of nerve to be a writer...an almost physical nerve, the kind you need to walk a log across a river.

Roz is telling a story. That's what they will do, increasingly in their lives: tell stories. Tonight their stories will be about Zenia.

Stick a shovel in the ground almost anywhere and some horrible thing or other will come to light.

She stubs out her cigarette in the brown glass ashtray, then settles herself against him, ear to his chest. She likes to hear his voice this way, as if it begins not in his throat but in his body, like a hum or a growl, or like a voice speaking from deep underground. Like the blood moving through her own heart: a word, a word, a word.