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"..her presence had somehow become irrelevant to her own husband, and how are people supposed to tolade that kind of pain? How are you supposed to go from being the center of someone's world to being irrelevant? To sobbing in your best friends arms unthinkingly to being afraid to call them after your father dies?"

"..She gives up trying to feel like she's in a painting. She doesn't have to be beautiful in this moment. She doesn't have to be anything, ever. Her husband is not watching. Her father is not watching. Nobody was ever really watching, expect Phoebe. Phoebe was the only person waiting in the dark to condemn herself for every single thing when the day was over."

"..And why does she do this? Why does she have a nice day with people, feel connected to them, and then, when alone, think only about the possible horrors of her isolation ahead?"

"She is surprised that she genuinely wants to know.
She has always been so afraid to know things about herself...or seeing her large nose in a photo or listening to her therapist draw unbearably acourate conclusions about her."Have you always been this critical of yourself?" he asked her and yes, she has.Where did she learn this?How did she become so good at identifying flaws? At seeing only the fungus on the trees?

"It's arousing to see someone passionately take care of all the problems. Especially for someone like Phoebe, the perpetual passanger of the relationship, according to her therapist-the one who always asked, 'where do you want to go to dinner?' hoping the other person knew where they wanted to go."

"She refuses to spend her last hours on this planet worrying. She has spent too much time worrying about what to drink, where to vacation, what to wear, what to say, was it hotter to write cum or come, and what was the point? What did it matter how she spelled it? Her husband left anyway."

"She looked at herself in the mirror. There she was again, she thought, and yet, she felt.like she was somewhere far away, still in the fertility clinic, watching Matt shake hands with the doctor. Or maybe she was at the River Ouse, watching Virginia Woolf fill her pockets with stones. She wondered how many stones Woold used. How cold was the water?"

"This is her name, the name she has come to think of as hers. Yet it feels like she's lying when she says it now, because it's her husband's family name. Whenever she hears herself say it, it somehow pushes her outside of her body."

"Behind the curtains, this, he thinks, is what lovers do. They are alchemists and architects; pioneers and fabulists; they make one thing another; they invent the world around them."

"What do real couples actually do together? he wonders. How do real couples spend all that time?
Jack and Elizabeth do not know. They are twenty years old. This is the first time they've been coupled with anyone in any way that's real."

"What the fuck am I doing wrong? was basically her everyday mantra, and yet, somehow, Toby thought she was perfect. And Jack too thought she was perfect. And so the big question was: Why was she the only one who disagreed?..And then it came to her. She was still on that tennis court.. willing herself to lose, still sabotaging herself to avoid her father's jealousy, prevent his revenge.'

"Lawrence, after all, could have told Jack to toughen up, to be a man, as so many of the other fathers did. But no, Lawrence had never asked Jack to be anything other than what he was. Lawrence had accepted Jack in a way that Jack could not, he thought now, reciprocate."

"..she awoke with that unnamed melancholy that always accompanies and complicates this particular day. For today is her birthday."

"Every couple has a story they tell themselves about
themselves, a story that hums beneath them as a kind
of engine, motoring them through trouble and into the
future..But stories have power only insofar as they're believed, and suddenly, Elizabeth wondered if her and Jack's story wasn't in fact just another highly embellish placebo,just a fiction they both believed because of how good and special it made them feel."

"..and suddenly sitting there watching Toby happily eat Elizabeth wondered if her and Jack's story wasn't in fact just another highly embellished placebo, just a fiction they both believed because of how good and special it made them feel. And maybe all love was like that, a placebo, and maybe every marriage ceremony was part if that placebo's elaborate ornamentation, its therapeutic context."

"They say that marriage is hard, but it seems to me if it's that hard then you're probably doing it wrong."

"The inexchangable pleasure of her conversation. Just to walk the streets saying things, anything, just the act itself, walking together at same speed, and talking, purely to amuse and please one another, to make each other stupidly laugh, for no further accomplishment, no higher purpose, to let their word rise and disperse forever in the damp brackish air."

"Wanting to say and hear the words again, that can never again be said or heard. To return to the house once more, and not find it dark and empty, but airy and bright again with open windows. To spend an afternoon together, playing with the dog, eating dinner, doing nothing, only being together, just once more."

"It's lucky you're thinking about all this now when you're only twenty-two. When I was that age my life hadn't even started happening to me yet."