“All good New Orleanians go to look at the Mississippi at least once a day. At night it is like creeping into a dark bedroom to look at a sleeping child--something of that sort--gives you the same warm nice feeling, I mean.”

“The Mississippi looks like diluted mud by day but by night it's again the grand and majestic river of the days of tomahawks and coonskin caps.”

“I think it was the first time in my life I ever felt like I looked “good”. Do you know what I mean? That nice feeling when you look in the mirror, and your hair’s right for the first time in your life? I don’t think we should base so much on weight, muscles, and a good hair day, but when it happens, it’s nice. It really is.”

“Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.”

“We lie together, then, warm in the chill of the night. Outside, in the amber glow of the streetlights, it begins to snow. Gwen’s breathing slips into the slow rhythm of sleep. I glance at the door. I know I should go back to my own bedroom, but…just a little while longer, Gwen feels so good in my arms, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.”

“It was a nice thing for her to say. In her way. With Greta you have to look out for the nice things buried in the rest of her mean stuff. Greta’s talk is like a geode. Ugly as anything on the outside and for the most part the same on the inside, but every once in a while there’s something that shines through.”