The void is my friend.
Writers spend a lot of time alone. If we’re lucky, we like being alone, and if we are even luckier, we have people who love us through it all. As I write this, I can’t even tell how lucky I feel.
Acknowledgements, page 120, The Empress of Salt and Fortune by Nghi Vo
They were all there to greet me, enfolding me in the embrace of our collective dislocation from this place where all our stories go and return. Here is where we began. Where our songs were born, our ancestors buried.
page 152, Against the Loveless World by Susan Abulhawa
The Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite.
Piranesi by Susanna Clarke
