“The zone. The Zone is gradually disappearing, like a grease spot being vigorously rubbed. At Porte de Pantin, through the mounds with chalky paths running down their sides that mark the site of the old fortifications (quite invisible today), workmen are carving out a railroad-like trench for a planned expressway.”
“The echoes of shoe heels on hardwood, the rustling of suit pants, the thistledown of summer dresses swishing on bare legs in the cool lobby as the white citizens of Pineyville went about doing their morning business.”
“Nyamuragi runs quickly. He knows this hill and its slopes. Every evening he walks along them, pleased to survey his own small domain. The land of his fathers. It was many years ago that he was born here.”
