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“Because more than sorry for him, I felt a terrible sameness with Llewellyn, itching like an old scar. I knew something about the pain and the longing that so clearly filled the man--swole up inside him like the bruises on his hands; fit to burst, fit to bleed, fit at last to be said and down away with. I knew too well the ache of loving somebody who just plain don't love you, and never will.”

“That was his father's way---beloved, tough old Preacher Jackson: hellfire and fear. That had always been his way, and Llewellyn had no use for it. He had no use for his father or the kind of people who listened to him, holding fast to his every damning word; finding assurance in being better. I'm better than...At least I'm not...I'm better than... Llewellyn had no use for it.”

“He sits ramrod straight, like a man beaten out of slouching and twitching as a boy. Like a man of gentility, unaccustomed to dark corners and dank basements--at least from this side of them. He does not seem exactly unfamiliar with the unsightly. With the putrid. And maybe that's only from having to scrounge out a living in it, now that he's lost everything--a man of misfortunes. Maybe it's because at another time, he was the man with the power to snuff things out in the dark.”

“Nebraska dark didn't close in, it stretched out...Broad stretching sky covering everything, everything, forever. He could see what was ahead in the beam of his headlights, but beyond that was more of the same. Of the same. Of the same. No tight corners or dead-ends. No earth-trapping suffocation. The opposite. There was nothing, forever, nothing, and he could breathe in and breathe in and breathe in and breathe in until his lungs exploded and there would still be more air, more wind, clawing its way down his useless throat. That was Nebraska.”

“A few feet of pine boards and thousand miles of heartache gaped between them: hurts they'd given to each other, and hurts they carried all by themselves, because at some point...at some point they had become more apart than they were together. And somehow Junior could know Jean-Louise better than he knew himself, love her better than himself, and still keep his deepest pains locked away from her. Sometimes, it occurred to him that she might do the same.”

“She wondered how Cole, or Lottie, or anybody could join her family--could ever be a aprt of the years that formed so many jokes and feuds and scars. All this talk of diamonds and futures, and it occured to her for the very first time that the person of Rachel Eklund was a fragile and wasting thing. Another evening with Cole, another less with Mama and Harold and Dalton and Mildred; another less of sharing together a single, secret personhood no one else could understand. A little less and a little less, and then she'd be another person--Rachel Windham, most likely, molding this piece of herself with that piece of Cole, augmented mostly by their each others': this joke he made, this fight she started; the two of them making the way for other breakable people. And Rachel thought, 'this is the way families go.”