She thought of the boy's features as an exquisite distillation out of random patterns-endless queues of happenstance meeting at this nexus.

She repeats things until they are true, or until she can't tell whether they are true or not. She has become an expert at confusing what is with what was with what should be with what could be.

...he liked his transcendence out in plain sight where he could keep an eye on it -- say, in a nice stained-glass window -- not woven through the fabric of life like gold threads through a brocade.

The trouble with dying is you don't get to stay around and see how everything turns out.

Written By Anne Tyler

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