The Island of Missing Trees: A Novel

The places where we were born are the shape of our lives, even when we are away from them. Especially then.

the repetitions and rhythms that suffocated him little by little, but never fast enough.

drifting back to the painful place they both shared but could only occupy separately.

vainglory.

But sometimes she danced because she felt grateful to be alive. Or because she was high, having accidentally digested too much nectar laced with caffeine.

‘People from troubled islands can never be normal. We can pretend, we can even make amazing progress – but we can never really learn to feel safe. The ground that feels rock hard to others is choppy waters for our kind.’

A map is a two-dimensional representation with arbitrary symbols and incised lines that decide who is to be our enemy and who is to be our friend, who deserves our love and who deserves our hatred and who, our sheer indifference. Cartography is another name for stories told by winners. For stories told by those who have lost, there isn’t one.

People assume it’s a matter of personality, the difference between optimists and pessimists. But I believe it all comes down to an inability to forget. The greater your powers of retention, the slimmer your chances at optimism.

habitual cynicism