“You're perfect for me,' I whispered in my own language.”

“You're in deep with me, aren't you, baby?" I whispered my question just to confirm."Drowning." he whispered back.”

“In my eyes you're perfect, until you lie to me. Betraying my trust is something I can forgive, but never forget. Stay perfect.”

“Trust me, he whispers against my lips. Maggie, you're my paradise.”

“I speak only one language, and it is not my own.”

“She began to whisper something in my ear. It’s the strangest thing about poetry—you can tell it’s poetry, even if you don’t speak the language. You can hear Homer’s Greek without understanding a word, and you still know it’s poetry. I’ve heard Polish poetry, and Inuit poetry, and I knew what it was without knowing. Her whisper was like that. I didn’t know the language, but her words washed through me, perfect, and in my mind’s eye I saw towers of glass and diamond; and people with eyes of the palest green; and, unstoppable, beneath every syllable, I could feel the relentless advance of the ocean.”