“Memory did not let go; it remained the net dragged in one's wake, with all sorts of strange things snarled in the knotted strands.”

“She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.”

“One might be led to suspect that there were all sorts of things going on in the Universe which he or she did not thoroughly understand.”

“America is woven of many strands. I would recognise them and let it so remain. Our fate is to become one, and yet many.”

“Nobody sees any one as he is, let alone an elderly lady sitting opposite a strange young man in a railway carriage. They see a whole--they see all sorts of things--they see themselves...”

“Good writing takes place at intersections, at what you might call knots, at places where the society is snarled or knotted up.”