“I didn't like the endless gossiping or the constant complaints that they were victims of external factors. Somalis never said "Sorry" or "I made a mistake" or "I don't know": they invented excuses. All these group strategies to avoid confronting reality depressed me. Reality is not easy, but all this make-believe doesn't make it easier.”

“I know. I know all of that. But knowing doesn't make it easier.”

“I don't know how to make you believe I'm sorry. I fucked up. I made a huge mistake. Again. I know that, but I also know there is way more to what happened than you're telling. I was freaked out and I wasn't thinking clearly, but I would never purposely hurt you, Hope. Ever. I didn't even kiss you until you asked me to. I would never...”

“I’m sorry for all the secrecy, for making you feel like you weren’t important enough to know the real me. But I’m most sorry because I have fucked you – I don’t know how many times – and never made love to you.”

“And I could go the rest of my life like this, don't get me wrong. This was reality and I'd certainly learned to adapt to that reality. I didn't love it, I'd never love it, but I lived with it pretty well.”

“At least I was capable of knowing there was some other kind of life possible, even if I was having trouble achieving it. They believed that the way they were living was the only kind of life that existed. They had no imagination to envision anything else, and no desire to reach it. I felt sorry for them. I still do sometimes, although that doesn't mean their constant idiocy isn't capable of driving me to the brink of madness. They never have learned from their mistakes. It would probably be easier on everyone if I stopped expecting them to.”