“What are you doing here?”All right, he was standing in front of an easel, holding a paint palette and brush. “Taxidermy?” he responded with just a touch of his own sarcasm.”

“I have stopped painting. I stand in front of the easel, brush in hand, but my mind is blank. It is as if I have been struck by a strange kind of blindness.”

“The love of the painter standing alone and staring, staring at the great coloured surface he is making. Standing with him in the room the rearing canvas stares back with tentative shapes halted in their growth, moving in a new rhythm from floor to ceiling. The twisted tubes, the fresh paint squeezed and smeared across the dry upon his palette. The dust beneath the easel. The paint has edged along the brushes' handles. The white light in a northern sky is silent. The window gapes as he inhales his world. His world: a rented room, and turpentine. He moves towards his half-born. He is in love.”

“...We’re working with paint today and I pick the easel next to Jake’s. It thrills him.“What do you want?”“I want to apologize if you’re offended by the way I am,” I tell him. “But that’s the way I am with everyone. I was just trying to make you feel welcome.”“That’s the crappiest apology I’ve ever heard.”“Well, that’s because I’m not really sorry.”He rolls his eyes. “Right.”

“Here is the hardest hit of all, O'Malley," Harry said. "Here is the very worst thing I can do to you."He held out his hand, as if asking for a handshake. He was asking for a handshake.Conor responded almost automatically, putting out his own hand and shaking Harry's before he even thought about what he was doing. They shook hands like two businessmen at the end of a meeting."Goodbye, O'Malley," Harry said, looking into Conor's eyes. "I no longer see you.”

“I hold the key to his heart right here." He lifted a briefcase from his side to show her. "All we have to do is wind it up again.”