People only died after saying to each other all the things that needed to be said, and the summer never truly ended so long as those bottles gleamed down cellar, full of the distillate memory. For Justin, the distillate of memory was a bitter vintage. The summer of 1928 seemed impossibly long ago, beyond imagining, forty years before blasted sperm met cursed egg to make him. When he put the book aside and looked at the dried blood under his fingernails, it seemed even longer. An artist who doesn't read is no artist at all , he had scribbled in a notebook he once tried to keep, but abandoned after a few weeks, sick of his own thoughts.
Books are the key to other minds, sure as bodies are the key to other souls.
Reading a good book is a lot like sinking your fingers up to the second knuckle in someone's brain. In the world of the story, no one left before it was time. He wished live people were so easy to hold onto. That was easy. All of someone.