The Immortalists

all those upturned faces, waiting to see what she had up her sleeve. Of course, some of the faces were not upturned but sleeping, and secretly, those were the ones she liked best. She was determined to wake them up.

Unexceptional but steady and solid was not the worst thing one could be, she thought, and she went to the pantry to retrieve her own jar, which she had waited for his reply to open.

she hoped – God, she hoped – that it was not too late for life to surprise her. She hoped it was not too late for her to surprise herself.

What if I change? she asked the fortune teller, all those years ago, sure that knowledge could save her from bad luck and tragedy. Most people don’t, the woman said.

She’d tell herself that what she really wanted was not to live forever, but to stop worrying.

Thoughts have wings.

Our language is our strength, he’d written.

the power of words. They weaseled under door cracks and through keyholes. They hooked into individuals and wormed through generations.

She knew that stories did have the power to change things: the past and the future

can choose to live. Or we can choose to survive.’