Page 54: And she will fling the radio to the wall and a fierce red rage will run through her at how it was all packaged and sanitized and made to fit into so few words, all those bodies.
Page 67: But who can tell? Perhaps nothing would have been different even if we had won.
Page 96: She could not tell his age from his face; it was pleasant but unformed, as though God, having created him, had slapped him flat against a wall and smeared his features all over his face.
Page 187: You remember the heat of that summer clearly, even now, eighteen years later – the way Grandmama's yard felt moistly warm, a yard with so many trees that the telephone wire was tangled in leaves and different branches touched one another and sometimes mangoes appeared on cashew trees and guavas on mango trees.
The thing around your neck – Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Copyright © Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie 2009
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