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224 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2019
I thought of how one might explain to a four-year-old the raft of complicated, legitimate and paranoid reasons that militated against her wearing her gift in public, but the mere prospect of opening my mouth felt hideous and exhausting. I was also aware that I was a man with a car door who feared that Nora's hijab would make us weirdly conspicuous [on the subway]. In the end it didn't matter. In an immigrant city, a city of innumerable struggles and ambitions, a white man with a car door and a daughter wearing a blue hijab attract less attention than you might expect.
People were always offering writers their stories, I thought. But those were rarely the stories writers wanted. Those stories were like children who always raised their hands in class. Good stories didn't raise their hands. – Immigrant City
It happened, I thought. Years after you left here and ceased to know her, the lofty thing you dreamed of came true. You made it come true. What a comfort it would have been to know that. And what a surprise to learn that in twenty years you'd be standing here looking back with a longing equal to the longing with which you'd once looked ahead. – How It Used to Be
One of life's cruelest lessons is that a person can't unknow something. And there exists enough unavoidable pain in the world that one would be a fool or a masochist to actively court more. – Little Rooster
What constituted ordinary childhood? What did they have to go on? Report cards were composed in a language that bore only a faint resemblance to English. Parent-teacher conferences had the polite, anxious feel of second dates. Then there was the hysterical Internet. Contrast with his older sister. Comparison against Mark's imperfect memories of his own childhood. Did he have even a single distinct memory of himself at eight? Everything before – what, twelve? – felt like a brown haze punctuated by bright spectres of embarrassment or shame. – Childhood
It was easy to pity Svirsky, Roman thought. But for all his troubles, Svirsky was actually a lucky man. He possessed something Roman had lost and could never recover. Confused, tired, defeated, Svirsky would still go home to the expectant clamour of his young children. No money, no success, nothing the man attained would ever rival such joy. – Roman's Song
A short distance up the beach, two middle-aged women in bathing suits were balancing against each other and advancing gingerly out into the Baltic. They had already progressed about fifty yards but the water was not yet to their waists. The sight triggered Victor's first memory of his Soviet childhood: stepping out into a dark-blue sea, conscious of danger but feeling as though he could go a great distance before he had anything to fear. – A New Gravestone for an Old Grave
Kostya watched the larger gangster unbutton his jacket and slide his hand inside. Cursing Skinny Zyama, Kostya took a step in the gangster's direction. If the man had a gun, there wasn't much he could do about it, but he knew that if the gangster motioned toward his pocket, he was required to take a step forward. There was an understanding between everyone in the room that this was how it was supposed to be. The script had been written long ago and performed by other men in other rooms and in the movies. – The Russian Riviera