The stars multiply, separate, and scatter. Everything comes to an end and then starts again. (p67) - Marie Vieux-Chauvet

"He lives in sin," my mother explained to me, "and sin is contagious." (p93)

The sentences coming out of him displaced those scrolling under his eyes in the book. (chapter 8)

Alone again, she had invented touchingly naïve myths to console herself: a leaf whirling in the wind, a butterfly whether black or alive with color, the hooting of an owl or the graceful song of a nightingale, everything seemed pregnant with meaning. (chapter 8)