“For better or for worse, music is the language of memory. It is also the language of love.”

“Music is the language of memory”

“If you ask me, music is the language of memory”

“So much of the language of love was like that: you devoured someone with your eyes, you drank in the sight of him, you swallowed him whole. Love was substance, broken down and beating through your bloodstream.”

“Was there a language of loss? Did everyone who suffered speak a different dialect?”

“In the English language there are orphans and widows, but there is no word for the parents who lose a child.”

“Every life has a soundtrack.There is a tune that makes me think of the summer I spent rubbing baby oil on my stomach in pursuit of the perfect tan. There's another that reminds me of tagging along with my father on Sunday morning to pick up the New York Times. There's the song that reminds me of using fake ID to get into a nightclub; and the one that brings back my cousin Isobel's sweet sixteen, where I played Seven Minutes in Heaven with a boy whose breath smelled like tomato soup. If you ask me, music is the language of memory.”