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281 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2002
This is silly, I said to myself. Go downstairs and wait for morning. But even as I said it, I knew I wouldn't. It wasn't some test of bravery or even curiosity anymore. It was just that if I turned around and went downstairs, it would mean there was smth to be afraid of. And if there was smth to be afraid of, then how would I be able to spend the rest of the night in that house?
(p131)
"This is all your fault," I said to my mother. "Your fault." I didn't mean it, really. I knew there was a lot I would never understand - like what it must have been like to have two small kids and a dead husband. But I wanted to hurt someone as much as I hurt. And I wanted it to be her.bt, dt.
(page 265)
This isn't just my story, and where it beings and ends for me isn't where it begins and ends for anyone else.
(p276)
I will say this. People leave their stories everywhere. On tiny scraps of paper and initials scratched in wooden benches. In bits of conversation overheard at a bus stop or floating out from a second-story window on a warm, summer day. In what they throw away but shouldn't, and in what they should throw away but can't. Even on grocery lists, if you squint your eyes and look at them long enough.And it does have a satisfying explanation for all the "Editor's notes" and who's behind writing the book, that's one thing I liked about the ending.
(page 281)