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Ink sinks into stationery, indelible as a scar; email is breath on glass, an instant dissolve.
the past is a poison. Tolerable only in trace amounts.”
‘It belongs to human nature to hate him whom you have harmed.’” She opens her eyes again, finds her teacup. “We hate those we hurt.”
“I don’t think I can imagine wanting to die,” she says, slowly. “But I guess I can imagine not wanting to live.”
“‘A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world,’” he says. “‘It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.’”
“Where the mystery and the violence are mostly within you, and where the clues almost ineluctably lead you someplace you don’t want to go.”
