“Briefly, he thought of his mother, or rather, the mother of his childhood, his permanent mother, an island herself, a quiet and perplexing woman adrift in an ocean of wheat, and how she had once told him in a steady and rising Yiddish voice that literature was a memory of a memory of a memory.”

“Briefly, he thought of his mother, or rather, the mother of his childhood, his permanent mother, an island herself, a quiet and perplexing woman adrift in an ocean of wheat, and how she had once told him in a steady and rising Yiddish voice that literature was a memory of a memory of a memory.”

— Michael Zapata