Quotes from Christina Baker Kline

The night of the fire, the night they took me in, I could hear Mrs. Schatzman in her bedroom, fretting with her husband about what to do with me. "I didn't ask for this," she hissed, the words as distinct to my ears as if she'd been in the same room. "Those Irish! Too many children in too small a space. The only surprise is that this kind of thing doesn't happen more.

life. I've come to think that's what heaven is—a place in the memory of others where our best selves live on.

It was time to let go. She was no longer an angry child. She didn't want to carry that burning coal around anymore; she was ready to be rid of it. Yes, her mother had been selfish and irresponsible; yes, she sent her out onto the streets to steal and turned her back when she was caught. She also taught her the skills that would save her. The guard, heartless bastard, was right: Hazel was only hurting herself.

On the evening of the third day, I can feel him looking at me. He has a funny expression on his face, like he's doing math in his head. Finally he says, "So what's that thing you got around your neck?" and it's clear what he's up to. "There's no value in it," I say. "Looks like silver," he says, peering

Every person you've ever cared about, and every place you've ever loved, is one of these shells. You're the thread that ties them together," she'd said, touching Mathinna's cheek. "You carry the people and places you cherish with you. Remember that and you will never be lonely,

Test your limits. Learn what you can endure. I am doing that. As

Es como si hubiera estado en la cuerda floja, tratando de mantener el equilibrio, y ahora, por primera vez, pisara terreno firme.

He frowns. "Sure is strange looking. Doubt I could sell it if I tried.

I try to forget the horror of what happened. Or—perhaps forget is the wrong word. How can I forget? And yet how can I move forward even a step without tamping down the despair I feel? When I close my eyes, I hear Maisie's cries and Mam's screams, smell the acrid smoke that must have started from that pile of newspapers, feel the heat of the fire on my skin, and heave upright on my pallet in the Schatzmans' parlor, soaked in a cold sweat.

YOU—THE IRISH GIRL. OVER HERE." A THIN, SCOWLING MATRON in a white bonnet beckons with a bony finger. She must know I'm Irish from the papers Mr. Schatzman filled out when he brought me in to the Children's Aid several weeks ago—or perhaps it is my accent, still as thick as peat. "Humph," she says, pursing her lips, when I stand in front of her. "Red hair.

I've come to think that's what heaven is—a place in the memory of others where our best selves live on.

Other resources I relied on during my orphan train research were the Children's Aid Society; the New York Foundling (I attended their 140th homecoming in 2009 and met a number of train riders there); the New York Tenement Museum;

Feeding Carmine bread soaked in milk reminds me of the Irish dish called champ I often made for Maisie and the boys—a mash of potatoes, milk, green onions (on the rare occasion when we had them), and salt. On the nights when we went to bed hungry, all of us dreamed of that champ.

There's an indoor toilet, he informs us (though, as we soon find out, this "toilet" is a terrifying open hole above the tracks).

Without even thinking about it, my son uses technology in almost everything he does, large and small.

Many people, for many reasons, feel rootless - but orphans and abandoned or abused children have particular cause.

Hardcovers will never completely disappear. They are delightful to hold; they feel weighty and substantial. But my anecdotal evidence suggests that the world is changing.

Having the book-club army embrace you is a gift that keeps giving for years.

One of the wonderful things about being a writer is that you're constantly dredging up some arcane knowledge or long-forgotten experience, rediscovering old passions and interests.