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256 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1997
She was a resource, densely stratified, embedded with objects whose significance I might never understand.
Choe and Isobel had no common ground. There was no language that would describe them to each other.
People like Choe are like moths in a restaurant on a summer evening just as it gets dark. They bang from lamp to lamp, then streak across the room in long flat wounded trajectories. We make a lot of their confusion but less of their rage. They dash themselves to pieces out of sheer need to be more than they are.
She stared at me as if she had just thought of something. 'How could I see a sunrise, China? It was dark when we landed.' Her dreams had always drawn her away from ordinary things.
If you're so clever, you tell me what else I could have done.
Some events take language away from you. The pieces of the world settle into a shape that won't be said. It is a kind of vertigo.
... send out their call, aching and musical. It is raw speech, the speech of desires that can never be fulfilled, only suffered.
... braking only when the bend filled the windscreen with black and white chevrons, pirouetting out along some undrawn line between will and physics.