She had always assumed that her life would end inside the war, that the war itself would be her eternal present, as it was for Darrow and for her brother. The possibility of time going...

She consoled herself with the thought that the pictures were graphic enough to shake people up, stop them being complacent about what was happening, and if that meant the war would end sooner, those two...

What was the point of living through history if you didn’t record it?

Why did someone fall in love with you because you were one thing, and then want you to be something else?

[They] believed that the worst way to die, was far from home. That one’s soul traveled the earth, lost forever. But this place was as much her home as [California]. She had lived out some...

This is what happened when one left one’s home – pieces of oneself scattered all over the world, no one place ever completely satisfied, always a nostalgia for the place left behind. Pieces of her...

Helen’s Saigon had always been about selling – chickens, information, or lovely young women, it didn’t matter. It had once been called the Pearl of the Orient, but by people who had not been there...

Clear now that she was as dependent as any addict on the drug of the war. He had underestimated the damage in her.

No matter that they had been together for years, always a feeling of formality when they first saw each other again, even if the separation had been only hours. It had something to do with...

Pictures could not be accessories to the story — evidence — they had to contain the story within the frame; the best picture contained a whole war within one frame.

A woman sees war differently.

Saigon in utter darkness this last night of the war. A gestating monster. Her letter to Linh had been simple: I love you more than life, but I had to see the end.