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

“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.”

“This uneasiness comes over me from time to time, and I feel as if I've somehow been pieced together from two different puzzles.”

“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.”

“Your hand fits mine like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle”

“Something inside him shifted and came to rest, as if it had found its proper place. It was like one of his sister’s wooden tumbling puzzles, like the satisfying click it made when all its many turning pieces were perfectly aligned.”