“When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the dark movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman, and a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman - he looks tough and I don't - but I guess my own looks aren't so bad.”

“I picture my epitaph: 'Here lies Paul Newman, who died a failure because his eyes turned brown.”

“The day after Paul Newman was dead, he was twice as dead.”

“Out popped Paul Duffy, in plain clothes except for a state police windbreaker and a badge clipped to his belt. He looked at me - I think by now I had dropped the bat to my side, at least, though I must have looked ridiculous anyway - and he raised his eyebrows. 'Get back in the house, Babe Ruth.”

“I borrowed his brightness and used it to see my way, and then gradually, from the habit of looking at the world as he illuminated it, the light in my own mind rekindled.”

“Don't do this to me, Eliza. Please. I need you.” I looked at Paul. He was crying. “You don't need me,” I said, wondering whether or not I believed it. He gripped my face and kissed me. But it was a hard, painful kiss. A severe and bitter kiss. A kiss that seemed so black, so final, it was like death. “Happy fucking Birthday.”