“All good writing is like swimming underwater and holding your breath.”

“It's like swimming, underwater, this whole year. I just close my eyes. hold my breath, and keep kicking.”

“As we rose over the rooftops I caught my breath-well, if you can catch your breath underwater.”

“You don’t see yourself at all, do you? It seems to me that you’re good at everything you try,” said Ethan sincerely.“I had a dream I could breathe underwater,” I said flippantly, “Maybe I’ll go swim with the mermaids.”Ethan turned to look at me with shock in his eyes.“Just kidding,” I said, alarmed at his reaction”

“But I think sometimes a person has to be forced underwater to see if they're going to drown or swim.”

“We stand there, quiet. My questions all seem wrong: How did you get so old? Was it all at once, in a day, or did you peter out bit by bit? When did you stop having parties? Did everyone else get old too, or was it just you? Are other people still here, hiding in the palm trees or holding their breath underwater? When did you last swim your laps? Do your bones hurt? Did you know this was coming and hide that you knew, or did it ambush you from behind?”