“She is overtaken by a sensation of unbeing. There is no other word for it.”

“Yes," she answers and does not move. She might, at this moment, be nothing but a floating intelligence; not even a brain inside a skull, just a presence that perceives, as a ghoast might. Yes, she thinks, this is probably how it must feel to be a ghost. It's a little like reading, isn't it-that same sensation of knowing people, settings, situations, without playing any particular part beyond that of the willing observer.”

“Any other vexations to report?" he asks."I love the word 'vexations.'""It's the 'x.' Nice to jump off a 'v' and bite into an 'x' like that.""Just the usual ones," she says."How was the weekend?""Vexing. Not really, I just wanted to say it. You?”

“She will remain sane and she will live as she was meant to live, richly and deeply, among others of her kind, in full possession and command of her gifts.”

“Morning, Peter,” she callsfrom the back, in her exaggerated German accent. Mawning, Pedder.She’s been in the States more than fifteen years now, but heraccent has gotten heavier. Uta is a member of what seems to be agrowing body of defiantly unassimilated expatriates. She on onehand disdains her country of origin (Darling, the word “lugubrious”comes to mind) but on the other seems to grow more German (morenot-American) with every passing year....Because Uta is German, utterly German, which of course is probably why she leftthere, and insists that she’ll never go back.”

“What she wants to say has to do not only with joy but with the penetrating, constant fear that is joy's other half.”

“She, Laura, likes to imagine (it's one of her most closely held secrets) that she has a touch of brilliance herself, just a hint of it, though she knows most people probably walk around with similar hopeful suspicions curled up like tiny fists inside them, never divulged. She wonders, while she pushes a cart through the supermarket or has her hair done, it the other women aren't all thinking, to some degree or other, the same thing: Here is the brilliant spirit, the woman of sorrows, the woman of transcendent joys, who would rather be elsewhere, who has consented to perform simple and essentially foolish tasks, to examine tomatoes, to sit under a hair dryer, because it is her art and her duty.”