Every arrangement in life carried with it the sadness, the sentimental shadow, of its not being something else, but only itself. - Birds of America

But she had no memory of how to be brave. Here, it seemed, she had no memories at all. Nothing triggered them. And once in a while, when shegave voice to the fleeting edge of one, it seemed like something she was making up.

And so they drove on. The night before, a whole day could have shape and design. But when it was upon you, it could vanish tragically to air.

"The United States- how can you live in that country?" the man had asked. Agnes had shrugged. "A lot of my stuff is there," she'd said, and it was then that she first felt all the dark love and shame that came from the pure accident of home, the deep and arbitary place that happened to be yours.