“Love is blue. A clear cerulean when new. A bright, bold, true blue in its glorious throes. And when it hurts, as it inevitably will, love turns deep, dark, the color of a bad bruise.”

“I have no idea how he knows when I need him. We can go weeks without speaking, and then, when my blue moods threaten to turn black, he will show up and tell me my moods areazureindigoceruleancobaltperiwinkleand suddenly the blue will not seem so dark, more like the color of a noon-bright sky.He brings the sun.”

“I'm standing in a river. It's blue. Dark blue. Reflecting the color of the evening sky.”

“Did he happen to select a color too?""Blue.""Blue?" Victoria burst out, prepared to do physical battle for white.Madame nodded, her finger thoughtfully pressed to her lips, her own hand plunked upon her waist. "Yes, blue. Ice blue. He said you are glorious in that color-'a titian-haired angel,' he said"Victoria abruptly decided ice blue was a lovely color to be married in.”

“I sang colors to counteract the onset of gray winter. Cadmium yellow, brown madder, cerulean blue, I whispered, invoking pause.”

“How do you know, when you think blue — when you say blue — that you are talking about the same blue as anyone else?You cannot get a grip on blue.Blue is the sky, the sea, a god’s eye, a devil’s tail, a birth, a strangulation, a virgin’s cloak, a monkey’s ass. It’s a butterfly, a bird, a spicy joke, the saddest song, the brightest day.Blue is sly, slick, it slides into the room sideways, a slippery trickster.This is a story about the color blue, and like blue, there’s nothing true about it. Blue is beauty, not truth. ‘True blue’ is a ruse, a rhyme; it’s there, then it’s not. Blue is a deeply sneaky color.”