“My youngest brother killed a lynx yesterday,” Rose said. “Apparently it came into his territory and left some spray marks. He skinned it, smeared himself in its blood, and put its pelt on his shoulders like a cape. And that’s how he came dressed for breakfast.”Cerise drank some beer. “My sister kills small animals and hangs theircorpses on a tree, because she thinks she is a monster and she’s convincedwe’ll eventually banish her from the house. They’re her rations. Just in case.”Rose blinked. “I see. I think we’re going to get along just fine, don’t you?”“I think so, yes.”

“Before she closed her eyes tonight, Rose said she regretted that she has not done something heroic in her life. Well, it's not like she can suddenly climb a tree and save a cat, or go to medical school and begin some important cancer research. But Rose has been my sister. I think that's heroic.”

“You must tell me about it when you do,' she said. 'When you make love for the first time, I mean. I want to know what you think.'He glanced away from her, out of the window. An ice-cream parlour, a man with a dog, a tree. How was he going to get out of shopping next week?'It's so wonderful, it's like,' and she left her mouth open while she thought, and then it came to her, and she smiled, 'it's like colours everywhere.”

“He might be more trouble than he’s worth but I don’t think so. This man came into my life for some reason. Just as I came into his. Maybe we’re supposed to help each other cope.Or give each other hope.”

“The little prince went away, to look again at the roses."You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."And the roses were very much embarassed."You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.”

“Why don’t you purchase an Italian dictionary? I will assume the expense.”“I have one,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s very good. Half the words are missing.”“Half?”“Well, some,” she amended. “But truly, that’s not the problem.”He blinked, waiting for her to continue.She did. Of course. “I don’t think Italian is the author’s native tongue,” she said.“The author of the dictionary?” he queried.“Yes. It’s not terribly idiomatic.”