"Night does not communicate with the day. It burns up in it. Night is carried to the stake at dawn. And its people along with it—the drinkers, the poets, the lovers. We are a people of the banished, of the condemned."
""I’m game,” she said. “I’m in.” She pushed her sunglasses up onto the top of her head. The super-bendy photochromic lenses were constructed out of something called NXT, which had been invented by the army. Designed for battle, this pair was also great for trail running, deflecting slingshotting branches from scratching her eyes out, and mitigating the rapid-fire one-two shock of shadow and blazing sunshine during high-intensity sprints in the woods."
"It started in a pub. Not unusual for a journey. Phileas Fogg started his at the Reform Club in London, but then James Borthwick was not Phileas Fogg, and this pub was the nearest thing to a club that James knew."
"I’ll never forget the day he came to live with us. My husband brought him home from a trip."
"My plays have nothing to do with performance. The stage is just a place. I do not have actors. I have strangers who collaborate with me to make a new confusion in harsh light while other strangers hide in the pitch-black darkness."
"The autumn of 1977 left a mark on two young people. On a day when the sun was shining they boarded a clattering bus and traveled to a town twenty kilometers away. It was the boy who bought the tickets, while the girl took cover behind a concrete utility pole some distance from the station."
"Desire is a rift. Dental floss was stuck between Evan’s teeth. Hot water ran from the tap. Instead of a mirror, a void on the wall. Jars of cream on the shelf. The toothbrush quivered. Steam rose. We are alone and we are all of us strangers."
"Some time ago, perhaps before you were even born, a young girl was walking in her garden. She may have been called Mary—that's what most of the stories about her say."
"Right here, thank you, Lena spoke up from the backseat as they reached the narrow street below Olga’s Sublime. The morning clouds were still low and thick over the port, the rundown homes stacked into the hillside still drained of color."
"There, and not there. Outside the hostel window the town is hidden by fog. The pier down below dissolves into the colourless distance, like a bridge into the clouds. At times the fog disperses a little, and the contours of islands appear a little way out to sea. Then they’re gone again."
"That morning, hours after the cock crowed but before the townhall bell chimed eight, Bridey mounted narrow steps leading up from the kitchen, holding tight to the fluted handles of a silver oval on which Mr. Hollingworth’s breakfast quivered."
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