- [after looking over her poem]
- Auster: Okay... you tell me.
- Meg: I don't know.
- Auster: Why not? Are you afraid I'm going to tell you your work stinks?
- Meg: Does it?
- Auster: What do you think?
- Meg: Probably. I don't know.
- Auster: Come back when you do.
- [rises, starts to leave]
- Meg: It doesn't stink. There's a line that I like.
- Auster: Which one?
- Meg: "Lost leaves spin past the glass, but the trees don't go. They stay by my window."
- Auster: What about the rest of it?
- Meg: I could go deeper.
- Auster: Good for you.
- Auster: A world emerges from little details. For example, when we buried my son, I had forgotten to put in my contact lenses. I stood over him before they closed the coffin, trying to fix him in my memory. I could see the red from his sweater and his blue pants, and there was a scab on his forehead that hadn't healed. It was from a bicycle accident. I could feel that scab when I kissed him, but when I looked at him... he was out of focus.