“Someday she should tell Duncan more about her childhood—all that she feared and why. But for the moment it seemed too exhausting—an endless, tedious, impossible undertaking—this attempt to bring a new person up to speed on the annals of her life. This is my language, these are my holidays, my congresses, my restaurants, my rivers and the dams in them that make my lightbulbs go, and here on crumbling scrolls are the accounts of every famine, purge, and civil war, every revolution of government and industry, all that I made and lost and more.”
Book:Sleep