“My shoes made an odd, clacking sound on the cobblestones of the courtyard, no matter how quietly I placed my feet. It was like being followed by the audible manifestation of my own shadow.”

“Sure, I have nice shoes. They’re in my closet, collecting a patina of dust. My shoes were made for dancing, and that’s why they’re dusty, because my feet, unfortunately, were not made for dancing. My feet were made for making wine, and that’s why my walk is intoxicating.”

“I have something in my shoes--besides my feet.”

“My shadow’s so substantial that it has its own shadow. It isn’t as tall, but that’s OK, because sometimes it feels like I’m being followed by a black midget.”

“Hey, if you can't remember, don't worry about it. I'm having a few memory problems myself in this place. Little things like how long I've been here, what my purpose in life is, which feet to put my shoes on. Stuff like that.”

“His quiet certainty made the ground beneath my feet feel solid. Like someday everything might actually be okay.”