A lot of us are sad about books, worried about the printed word. At least one reason we care so much is that the work books do is so intimate, so important to human connection.
The girl is flying a kite. It cracks in the wind, so angular, so white, made of stolen sheets....John Drew has never seen a thing so pretty.
Patria had slapped him then, hard, and turned on her heel. "Traitor," she'd said, not in a political sense. It was Hemingway she had in mind. "His home is our home," she said often. "We owe Hemingway everything."
I tried whenever possible to interlace a thread of truth into the quilt of lies, explaining my accent, for example, by telling her I had lived much of my life in Belgrade.