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352 pages, Paperback
First published March 9, 2015
“A book must be an axe for the frozen sea within us.” - Franz Kafka
Am I mad?
No, I’m not mad.
How can you tell you’re not mad?
You just can.
How can you tell if you are mad? You just can.
But if you really are mad—how can you know? How can you know anything with absolute certainty
I listen to the voices arguing in my head, and I no longer know which of them is the rational one.
People think it’s hard not to leave your house for over a decade. They think it’s easy to go out. And they’re right; it is easy to go out. But it’s also easy not to go out. A few days soon become a few weeks; a few weeks become months and years. That sounds like an immensely long time. But it’s only ever one more day strung on to those that have gone before.
A trap for a murderer. With her as bait. Perfect, provided you weren’t overly attached to life. Sophie realized that she was thinking in the terms of a TV crime drama, with the murderer, the victim, the pesky eyewitness, the nice police officer. Somehow it was easier that way: to view the affair not as a genuine tragedy, not as a real part of her life, but as just another case.
Life is often so much less spectacular than fiction.
"Then why are we prolonging the agony and the yearning?” Jonas gave a slight smile. His dimple appeared. “Because we need the agony and the yearning. Because that’s what makes us feel alive,” he said.
