He only had the imperfect medium of words.

— Sara Gruen

He stares at me, and then leans back in his chair. "He's ill, Jacob." I say nothing. "He's a paragon schnitzophonic."" He's what?!"" Paragon schnitzophonic," repeats Uncle Al. "You mean paranoid schizophrenic?"" Sure. Whatever. But the bottom line is he's mad as a hatter...

— Sara Gruen

How hard can it be to find a girl and an elephant for Christ's sake?

— Sara Gruen

How is it that everyone on this train has so much alcohol?"" We always head to Canada at the beginning of the season," she says taking her seat again. "Their laws are much more civilized. Cheers.

— Sara Gruen

In all its beautiful, tragic fragility, there was still life.

— Sara Gruen

In your thirties something strange starts to happen. It’s a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation. How old are you? Oh, I’m — you start confidently, but then you stop. You were going to say thirty-three, but you’re not. You’re thirty-five. And then you’re bothered, because you wonder if this is the beginning of the end. It is, of course, but it’s decades before you admit it.

— Sara Gruen

I scan the room. Catherine is writing quickly, her light brown hair falling over her face. She is left-handed, and because she writes in pencil her left arm is silver from wrist to elbow.

— Sara Gruen

I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. Furthermore, I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.

— Sara Gruen

I strain to hear, but my old ears, for all their obscene hugeness, pick up nothing but snippets:

— Sara Gruen

Is where you're from the place you're leaving or where you have roots?

— Sara Gruen