How Was It Possible To

Only Now That My Son Was Gone Did I Realize How Much I'd Been Living For Him. When I Woke Up In The Morning It Was Because He Existed, And When I Ordered Food It Was Because He Existed, And When I Wrote My Book It Was Because He Existed To Read It.

That He Liked To Think Of Himself As A Philosopher. That He Questioned All Things, Even The Most Simple, To The Extent That When Someone Passing Him On The Street Raised His Hat And Said, 'good Day,' Litvinoff Often Paused So Long To Weigh Evidence That By The Time He'd Settled On An Answer The Person Had Gone On His Way, Leaving Him Standing Alone.

I Have Realised Just How Important It Is To Readers To Feel That Fictional Stories Are Based On Reality.

I Finally Understood That No Matter What I Did, Or Who I Found, I-he-none Of Us-would Ever Be Able To Win Over The Memories She Had Of Dad, Memories That Soothed Her Even While They Made Her Sad, Because She'd Built A World Out Of Them She Knew How To Survive On Even If No One Else Could.

He Died Alone Because He Was Too Embarrassed To Phone Anyone.