"You are wrong, Rabbi. You did not kill your daughter. And it does not matter now if you could have done something to save her or not. To think about what might have happened is useless. You can think about what might have happened, turn it over and over in your mind until you can’t think of anything else. You can plan your revenge or—or suicide. But none of that can change the past. The dead—your daughter and my parents—they would want us to go on. To live."

“You really can’t choose the people you’re going to like.”

“We are all tourists in each others’ lives. We all have monuments and ruins, places of strange beauty and forbidden sites chained off and locked securely so that no visitors can get in. And none of us has the guidebook to anyone else, or even the list of most commonly used phrases. We just have to get along the best we can.”

“Maybe art couldn’t survive it if was sponsored by the government. Maybe art always had to be subversive.”

“She felt that she had seen beneath the mask of the world, and she could not quite believe in that mask again.”

“You think you know what your life will be like thirty years from now and suddenly you’re doing something you couldn’t have planned five minutes ago.”

““A novel?” André laughed. “The novel’s dead—don’t waste your time. The novel takes a small—oh, infinitely small—cut-and-dried section of so-called reality and calls it art. Your life is art. Don’t waste it trying to write a novel.”