“You have to live your story before being able to write your story.”

“Do you remember? Do you remember being solid? Do you remember life before the hole? Before you were empty and needed to be filled? There was a time when everything was enough. There was a time you didn't try to get out of your own skin. Remember?”

“I have not survived against all odds. I have not lived to tell. I have not witnessed the extraordinary. This is my story.”

“Without stories, we’d have even more trouble recognizing what’s real.”

“if it's true your life flashes past your eyes before you die, then it is also the truth that your life rushes forth when you are ready to start to truly be alive.”

“What did you think?' I blurted out, heat rushing to my cheeks. 'Of what?''My writing.''Oh,'Ford said. He looked at me for a long moment before rising stiffly out of his lawn chair. 'I think the whole world should read your poems.”

“Lately I have been feeling hulihudu. And everything around me seemed to be heimongmong. These were words I had never thought about in English terms. I suppose the closest in meaning would be "confused" and "dark fog." But really, the words mean much more than that. Maybe they can't be easily translated because they refer to a sensation that only Chinese people have, as if you were falling headfirst through Old Mr. Chou's [Mr. Sandman's] door, then trying to find your way back. But you're so scared you can't open your eyes, so you get on your hands and knees and grope in the dark, listening for voices to tell you which way to go. I had been talking to too may people...to each person I told a different story. Yet each version was true, I was certain of it, at least at the moment I told it. ”