'It was snowing in London, and I was eating my dinner in a coat. You told me it was snowing in Paris too, And I looked up at the flakes falling from the sky. My fingers were red and shaking.'
'You may know how it feels when you nuzzle into the neck of your beloved. You lose sense of time and space. You want to inflate the reservoir of your lungs to compensate for the moments of agonizing separation. And it’s never enough.'
'You, who navigates a straight line, by moonlight are trapped in my electric cloche.'
'A misinformed member of my family once told me there was nothing in Verona apart from a fake balcony. Because Juliet and her Romeo were a figment of Shakespeare’s imagination.'
'They had the freedom to walk In the weak sun and take in the evening breeze Nothing moved them so much as the cold winds Bleaching the slag-gray bay some mornings'
'She wanted to shut them out completely and enclose herself in this darkness. It weighed heavy around her like an enormous blanket. She breathed it in greedily, felt herself bodiless. She didn’t need to see anything because it was all there.'
'I will escape from here. Twenty minutes left. Twenty minutes hold me from the abiding, nearly habitual rush. Not much…and at the same time an infernally long patch.'
'It was 1999 when I arrived. We were starlets, hustlers, setters of scenes to a beat. Sculptors and tweakers of mood and trend. Valliant weeders of the pretentious from the authentic.'
'If a true Londoner ever blundered into Malaya’s imagined London, he would be completely baffled. Its creator had never set foot in the British Isles, had never even been outside her little island in the Pacific. This trifling matter did not stop her from putting bits and bobs together from postcards, films, picture books, television shows, and her daydreams.'
'There was a boy I liked. He had wide cheekbones and fleshy lips, was sullen and red-eyed. He was as empty as I was. He opened his treasure chest suddenly, with no expression, and took out a pair of pants that had been painted to stand and crack like glorified leather. Soon he would be Pancho Villa, hero of outlaws and rebels!'