“In the literary machine that Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time” constitutes, we are struck by the fact that all the parts are produced as asymmetrical sections, paths that suddenly come to an end, hermetically sealed boxes, noncommunicating vessels, watertight compartments, in which there are gaps even between things that are contiguous, gaps that are affirmations, pieces of a puzzle belonging not to any one puzzle but to many, pieces assembled by forcing them into a certain place where they may or may not belong, their unmatched edges violently forced out of shape, forcibly made to fit together, to interlock, with a number of pieces always left over.”

“We are all pieces to a puzzle in each others lives. We have to decide were each person fits and not force them into a spot they don't belong in. Some pieces are beautiful, others are okay. Certain pieces you like more than others, then there are foundation pieces that outline your puzzle. You do have extra pieces that don't belong at all. But when your puzzle is done, you love each person that makes it whole.”

“In the end we had the pieces of the puzzle, but no matter how we put them together, gaps remained, oddly shaped emptinesses mapped by what surrounded them, like countries we couldn't name.”

“Every relationship has a hard part at the beginning. This is our hard part. It's not like a puzzle piece where there's an instant fit. With relationships, you have to shape the pieces on each end before they go perfectly together.”

“There was something else I couldn't quite define--something that made me uneasy. We were a wrong fit, like unmatching puzzle pieces.”

“Families are like puzzles. They fit together in a certain way, and if one piece is missing, it throws everything off.”