“Bengt didn’t budge. “Talk to me, damn it.”“Let go!”“And where are you planning to go, Alex?”“Away!”“You can’t get away. You’re lugging your own prison around with you and patching up any holes from inside. Brilliant tactics, really! How does it feel?”“Safe!”

“Maybe it was possible to relinquish control. He could do this, with Bengt he could. Give himself up and fly. He closed his eyes, let himself be pulled in by the touch. Bengt's arms. Bengt's hands on his thighs, arms, chest. Lips and tongue on neck and shoulders, the need for more. 'Don't stop.”

“I can't repair my wall as fast as you can tear it down.”

“But there was nothing except this languid contentment of satisfied desire, as if the rules had changed or the world wasn't the same anymore.”

“You have a masterpiece inside you, you know. One unlike any that has ever been created, or ever will be. If you go to your grave without painting your masterpiece, it will not get painted. No one else can paint it. Only you.”

“Letting go is the lesson. Letting go is always the lesson. Have you ever noticed how much of our agony is all tied up with craving and loss?”

“I can let you in, Eva. I’m trying. But your first response when I screw up is to run away. You do it every time and I can’t stand feeling like any moment I’m going to do or say something wrong and you’re going to bolt.”