“Children are selfish, she thought. They rob you of life. They thrive as you toil and wither, and then they bury you, their tears never once falling out of regret for what they’ve stolen.”

This was the beauty of sleep—reality detached itself and appeared in my mind as casually as a movie or a dream. 

Dormire, svegliarsi, tutto confluiva in un grigio, monotono viaggio in aereo nelle nuvole. Non parlavo tra me e me. Non c'era molto da dire. Da questo capivo che il sonno aveva effetto: ero sempre meno attaccata alla vita. Se continuavo così, pensavo, sarei scomparsa completamente, per poi ricomparire in qualche forma nuova. Era quella la mia speranza. Era quello il sogno.

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“I looked so boring, lifeless, immune and unaffected, but in truth I was always furious, seething, my thoughts racing, my mind like a killer’s. It was easy to hide behind the dull face I wore, moping around. I really thought I had everybody fooled. And I didn’t really read books about flowers or home economics. I liked books about awful things—murder, illness, death.”