Of course, that’s one of the dreams of modernist literature, whether realist or fantastic: that the more stories we tell each other about such tragedies, the fewer of them there will be. We’re still waiting...

Reality hasn’t really sunk in yet, I knew that. I didn’t want to know what life was going to feel like when it finally did.

[A] resistance that dispenses with consolations is always stronger than one which relies on them.