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447 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2002
I’d like to tell him that there is no such thing as “they” or “them.” That there are only individuals with layer upon layer of experience, ideas, hopes, dreams, beliefs. That there are some Japanese who are really Americans, some whites who are really Negroes, some Irish-German-Americans who are really Japanese at heart. And that in spite of what a person appears to be or not to be, it’s the heart and not the face that matters.
I could begin again to differentiate, to see the faces of individuals rather than the blur of one large group. The Yamagatas had the eyes but not the soul of the people who had destroyed my brother. And that was what made them different.
I was already well aware of a hollow place inside of me, like an air bubble caught in a pane of glass.
Her painted eyelids were two blue robin’s eggs in a nest of clotted mascara.
The music filled what we would otherwise not have recognized as our parched souls, helping us realize the beauty that we longed for only when we heard it.