“So he'll keep dragging himself up this bridge between possible worlds, this rickety ruin of light, trying to imagine it might matter if he makes it to the other side.”

“There were two options—call the foul or don't—and either way, he would lose, but there was a thrill here in this moment when actual combat might have replaced the shadowboxing he'd been doing for months now with every last person he loved.”

“Incidental, all of it, of course, but this was what this city bestowed that novels couldn't: not what you needed in order to live, but what made the living worth doing in the first place.”

“And why love things you were destined to lose? Why let yourself feel things if the feelings were doomed to die?”

“The second this interminable wait ended, it would all start to fall away into the past, to become unreal.”

“An actual artist, living right under her nose.”

“That it may be the only thing the darkness makes clearer: who really matters is whoever you're most desperate to see.”

“There is no such thing as a perfect phrase, or a private language, and . . . time only runs the one way.”

“And didn't time always slow, anyway, the closer you came to what you wanted?”

“One day, he and William had been speeding toward each other; the next, careening away. But why?”

“College stirred in her a certain contempt for virtues like kindness and persistence. She would have appeared to have been a kind and persistent person herself, but a steady diet of Antonioni films and an introductory course on existentialism had awakened her to the fact that she wanted more.”