A voice that speaks, a woman’s voice that speaks, a voice that speaks stories of life and death, has the power to give life.

To imagine a solitude so crushing, so unconsolable, that one stops breathing for hundreds of years.

It was negligence that governed him, not memory, and even though he went on living in that house all those years, he lived in it as a stranger might have.

If there is to be any justice at all, it must be a justice for everyone. No one can be excluded, or else there is no such thing as justice.

Memory, then, not so much as the past contained within us, but as proof of our life in the present.

Life is death, and death is a kind of life.”

It is a way of living one’s life so that nothing is ever lost.

The point is: his life was not centered around the place where he lived.

The moment of illumination that burns across the sky of solitude.