“For home had a way of shifting, of changing shape and temperature. Home was homeless. It could exist anywhere, because its only substance was familiarity. If it was broken by long journeys or tornadoes it emerged again, reinvented itself with new decor, new idiosyncrasies of morning, noon and dusk, and old routines.”

“Georgia had felt the colours and the rain, but she would not miss here. And there was something lost. The now-ness of things. It was not pretty.”

“Georgia tutted under her breath. 'I'm loud sometimes,' she said, thinking So bloody what if I'm quiet - what's the thing about it?”

“I needed somewhere that wasn't bad. I wanted to be light and happy like you, and I wanted never for you to see the dark. I was scared I would infect you with terrible feelings and pictures in my head of walking out in front of the traffic and - No. That's not for you, see? Not for you to hear. I needed you to be my sunlight, Bessi,' and here George paused and her words became very small, 'I lost mine, I lost it.”

“Leave home, leave the country, leave the familiar. Only then can routine experience—buying bread, eating vegetables, even saying hello—become new all over again.”

“Everything new and beautiful seems to arrive already haunted by its own demise.”

“Ïf ye've ever the privelege of seeing a woman in her skin, gentlemen,"he said, looking over his shoulder toward the door and lowering his voice confidentially, ÿe'll observe that the hair there grows in the shape of an arrow - pointing the way, ye ken, so as a poor ignorant man can find his way safe home.”