Believe me, Doctor, if your life ends in suddenness you will be glad it did, and if it does not, you will wish it had. You will want suddenness, Doctor.

— Téa Obreht

Eventually, my grandfather said: - You must understand, this is one of those moments.- What moments?- One of those moments you keep to yourself.… The story of this war… that belongs to everyone… But something like this— this is yours. It belongs only to you. And me. Only to us.

— Téa Obreht

Everything necessary to understand my grandfather lies between two stories: the story of the tiger’s wife, and the story of the deathless man. These stories run like secret rivers through all the other stories of his life – of my grandfather’s days in the army; his great love for my grandmother; the years he spent as a surgeon and a tyrant of the University. One, which I learned after his death, is the story of how my grandfather became a man; the other, which he told me, is of how he became a child again.

— Téa Obreht

...fear and pain are immediate, and that, when they're gone, we're left with the concept, but not the true memory--why else...would anyone give birth more than once?

— Téa Obreht

Grandfather recently died. He died alone on a trip away from home in a town where no one expected him to be

— Téa Obreht

In my earliest memory, my grandfather is bald as a stone, and he takes me to see the tigers.

— Téa Obreht

In the end, all you want is someone to long for you when it comes time to put you in the ground.

— Téa Obreht

- "I once knew a girl who loved tigers so much she almost became one herself.” Because I am little, and my love of tigers comes directly from him, I believe he is talking about me, offering me a fairy tale in which I can imagine myself—and will, for years and years.

— Téa Obreht

It's a sad thing to see, because as far as I know, this man Gave had done nothing to deserve to be shot in the back of the head at his own funeral. Twice.

— Téa Obreht

Knowing, above all, that I would come looking, and find what he had left for me, all that remained of The Jungle Book in the pocket of his doctor’s coat, that folder-up, yellowed page torn from the back of the book, with a bristle of thick, coarse hairs clenched inside. Galena, says my grandfather’s handwriting, above and below a child’s drawing of the tiger, who is curved like the blade of a scimitar across the page. Galena, it says, and that is how I know to find him again, in Galena, in the story he hadn’t told me but perhaps wished he had.

— Téa Obreht