"No one called her Eliza. They called her June. I'd seen June around, but never close up. She was flat but so pretty. She sat before I did, and not in the middle chair. I didn't know if I should sit next to her or sit so a chair was empty between us, so I tried to read her face, but I couldn't read her face because she wasn't bat-mitzvah yet——the stories wouldn't tell. They weren't available." (Chapter 1, p. 19)

"'I don't want this,' he said. I was chomsky to think he'd appreciate a wingnut. He tossed the wingnut back so it would land in my lap, but before its arc ended, I knocked it sideways with a sudden backhand. It bounced off the wall and landed in a planter that held a fan-shapred tree from Asia. 'This fighting,' said Brodsky. 'What can I...