“Her conversation was like a Russian newspaper, remarkable for what is left unsaid.”

“I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.”

“Eva was a between-the-lines talker. She left the sayable unsaid and said what she meant without saying it.”

“The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.”

“You don’t like me, do you?” she asked suddenly and pathetically, just like a small child. Sergei did not look at her but merely said, “What makes you think that?” “It is normal to try to make conversation while in the car with someone, isn’t it?” “Oh, well, my English is only average,” he lied. “Maybe, but I speak Russian,” she persisted Sergei grunted. “What, your Russian is only average too?” she said, raising an eyebrow.”

“Like life is short,” he said. “Like you don’t know when it’s going to end. Like some things, left unsaid, can’t ever be said.”