“Like a White Russian drinking tea in Paris, marooned in the twentieth century, I wander back, try to regain hose distant pathways; I become too maudlin, lose myself. Weep...I sit in the chair and ooze like a sponge.”

“If I was drunk, I wouldn’t be here at all. And really, this is pretty good for four White Russians.”“White what?” I almost sat down but was afraid the chair might dematerialize beneath me.“It’s a drink,” he said. “You’d think I wouldn’t be into something named that—you know, considering my own personal experience with Russians. But they’re surprisingly delicious. The drinks, not real Russians.”

“I like my tea like I like my men,” I say. With the last name “Grey.” But I realize that’s too forward, so I add, “Black.”He raises an eyebrow.“I mean, not that I exclusively like black men,” I say, trying to recover. “I like other kinds of tea. And men.”“Have you ever tasted...white tea, Anna?”

“That is my problem with life, I rush through it, like I'm being chased. Even things whose whole point is slowness, like drinking relaxing tea. When I drink relaxing tea I suck it down as if I'm in a contest for who can drink relaxing tea the quickest.”

“Cyril Connolly, twentieth-century writer and critic, wrote that ‘words are alive and literature becomes an escape, not from, but into living.’ That was how I wanted to use books: as an escape back to life. I wanted to engulf myself in books and come up whole again.p.20”

“Brains are like sponges...If allowed to become moist too long, they become moldy”