“But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?”

“She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they’d loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?”

“You can write a book on how to ruin someone’s perfect day.”

“Why else do we live, except to be loved and remembered by those we love?”

“We are in the monsoons and we must weather it out - the way of wisdom is, instead of pining for calmer days, to learn to live wisely and well in the midst of continuous strain.”

“I must say... that I ruined myself: and that nobody, great or small, can be ruined except by his own hand.”