"I go "I just want a cup of black coffee." She goes "Do you want to try a biscotti? They're from Italy and they're considered a delicacy." Have you ever eaten one of these things? It tastes like a burned cookie. Where I'm from, that's considered a mistake."

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Or perhaps a widow found him and took him in: brought him an easy chair, changed his sweater every morning, shaved his face until the hair stopped growing, took him faithfully to bed with her every night, whispered sweet nothings into what was left of his ear, laughed with him over black coffee, cried with him over yellowing pictures, talked greenly about having kids of her own, began to miss him before she became sick, left him everything in her will, thought of only him as she died, always knew he was fiction but believed in him anyway.

— Jonathan Safran Foer