“Wild geese fly south, creaking like anguished hinges; along the riverbank the candles of the sumacs burn dull red. It's the first week of October. Season of woolen garments taken out of mothballs; of nocturnal mists and dew and slippery front steps, and late-blooming slugs; of snapdragons having one last fling; of those frilly ornamental pink-and-purple cabbages that never used to exist, but are all over everywhere now.”

“When you're used to having electricity and then all of a sudden it's taken away, you're basically just one step from being a wild animal.”

“I looked up then, out the far window, and there, just within sight, the sun was going down across the river. It was dull red, no longer shining over the land, its ray brought home to roost, contained within its sphere. The sky was streaked with lavendar, a pulsing pale blue, purple and smudged pink and orange melding into one another all the way to the horizon.”

“But the pinkness and whiteness of underskirts and camisoles, the frilliness of foundation garments, the rustle about the bustle and the fuss about the bust.”

“Do you own anything not pink?" "I have a purple razor if you'd rather." "Please." She pulled out a darker pink one. "That's not purple," Talon said. "It's pink too.”

“The redness was going out of the light now, the remains of the day were a fading pink, the color of wild roses.”