“One of those n***** who thinks words are time and if you can string enough of them together you’ll live forever.”

Spoken by John J. Remus during his assault on the narrator, this line provides characterization and a direct statement on the novel’s exploration of storytelling. Remus’s observation articulates the narrator’s defining trait: his reliance on language and storytelling as his primary mechanism for survival. The metaphor equating words with time and eternal life captures the belief that narrative can transcend mortal threats, a central argument explored through both the narrator’s and Soot’s storylines.

“I’ve checked it all out, Tasha. From the very beginning, we did it all. We did everything. […] We didn’t do anything to deserve what happened. And neither did she.”

Soot says this to his ex-wife, revealing the purpose behind his psychological “time travel.” His journey through memory is a deliberate effort to construct a narrative of blamelessness in the face of their daughter’s death by suicide. This passage showcases storytelling as a conscious act of self-preservation, an attempt to revise a traumatic past into a form that is emotionally survivable for himself and for Tasha.

“‘Over there, you can be who you are.’ […] ‘They don’t dice us up into pieces over there. We get to be just human, you know?’”

The narrator’s agent, Sharon, describes Europe with these words, establishing the symbolic meaning of the “Other Continent.” Her speech presents Europe as a haven where Black Americans can escape the fragmenting pressures of racism. The metaphor of being “diced up into pieces” contrasts with the ideal of being “just human,” articulating a deep-seated desire for a geographical cure to systemic alienation and a place of unburdened existence.

“Call.

‘Fuck that n****.’

Response. […] A mantra, a plea, an apology, an identifier, an old and sacred prayer that dances on the lips of two members of a wandering, displaced tribe.”

During an encounter in a bathroom, Soot and a grieving professor named David engage in this ritualized exchange. The text employs a distinct typographic structure, formatting the dialogue as a call-and-response to elevate a profane phrase into a sacred litany. This craft decision emphasizes the creation of an insular space of shared understanding, demonstrating how language can forge a temporary “continent” of belonging for those navigating collective, racialized trauma.

“The awkward truth is there’s something magic in a gun. Not exactly ‘You’re a wizard, Harry!’ type of magic. But definitely something in the wheelhouse of ‘I wish a motherfucker would’ type of magic. Confidence is the best way that I can describe it. But ‘confidence’ is just another word for safety.”

As the narrator purchases a pistol, his internal monologue analyzes its symbolic power. He equates the gun with confidence and the desire for safety, revealing the psychological appeal of weaponry. This reflection establishes guns as a symbol is connected to the theme of The Psychological Scars of Systemic Violence, representing a portable piece of American trauma mistaken for a solution.

“But that thought is too far from his mind, too much covered up by the thought that […] ‘I’ve got a National Book Award. I’ll be okay.’”

Following a reflection on the police killing of Philando Castile, Soot uses his professional status as a psychological shield. This flawed reasoning illustrates the search for any form of safety, however illusory, in a world where racial identity can supersede individual achievement. Soot’s internal monologue underscores the theme of The Psychological Scars of Systemic Violence, as he constantly considers how to avoid America’s pervasive gun violence.

“The language of the dead is only ever smoke and puffs of wind and, sometimes, a plot of land off in the distance, unseeable in the darkened night, but always there, beckoning us to stay or come back to it, depending on where we are in time at that moment when the evening breeze blows just so.”

This passage concludes one of Soot’s “time travel” memories, where he revisits his family’s ancestral land. The use of personification, giving the land a voice that “beckons,” articulates Soot’s profound connection to his past. This description highlights the theme of The Search for Belonging as a Marginalized People,  as belonging becomes a psychological pull toward places saturated with memory and grief. The imagery of smoke and wind captures the intangible yet persistent presence of the past.

“‘Do you think that just because she’s Black that she’s from America?’ […] ‘But people like us, we know each other when we see each other. Just like how I can spot an African or a Haitian, I can spot an American. And that woman there, she’s an American.’”

During a confrontation in an Italian bar, the narrator insists a Black Italian waitress must be American, revealing his own ingrained assumptions about Black identity. The recurring “people like us” motif is used here to expose the narrator’s limited, American-centric perspective, where Blackness is monolithically linked to a shared national experience. This conflict explores the complexities of diaspora, as the narrator’s assertion is a projection of his own need for familiarity on the “Other Continent.”

“I can’t say where it came from or even when he pulled it. It’s just suddenly there, as if it was always there, just waiting for me to catch up to it in the timeline. […] As Remus walks toward me […] I tell my body to reach for the gun, but it doesn’t.”

In the moment before Remus stabs him, the narrator perceives the violence as a predestined event. This description gives the act a surreal quality, blurring the line between an external attack and an internal psychological state. The passage highlights the failure guns as a form of protection; despite smuggling it across the world, the narrator is paralyzed and unable to use it when the threat becomes real, demonstrating that it is a prop against a form of violence that feels fated.

“‘No,’ Soot replies. ‘She’ll pass it on. She’ll put the thought in Mia’s mind. This’—he shakes as he speaks—‘this is where it starts.’”

In a memory, Soot tries to prevent his daughter, Mia, from comforting a woman named Vivian as she has suicidal ideations. His dialogue, which treats suicide like a communicable disease, functions as a metaphor for his attempt to rationalize a tragedy. By framing Mia’s future death by suicide as an “infection,” Soot creates a false point of origin to impose order on his grief. This moment reveals the psychological contortions required to process trauma, engaging the theme of storytelling as a means of survival.

“But that wasn’t it. It was the gun. Knowing you had the gun. That’s what made me happy. I realized that the second I touched it…Is that weird?”

After the narrator is stabbed, Dylan confesses that the presence of the narrator’s gun made him feel a sense of “home.” This admission complicates the symbolism of guns, linking it not just to violence but to a feeling of American familiarity. Dylan’s reaction reveals how ingrained gun culture is to his identity, representing a portable piece of America. His question, “Is that weird?” highlights the normalization of the weapon as a source of comfort for those marked by American violence.

“‘They kept getting younger,’ Kelly says. ‘Back home, I mean. […] And it wasn’t car accidents or illness. Bullet holes. Just bullet holes. One day I decided to try and outrun the bullets. So here I am.’”

Kelly, an undertaker, provides her rationale for leaving the United States. The repetition of “bullet holes” emphasizes the specific nature of the violence she fled. Her statement literalizes the psychological scars of systemic violence, presenting her move to an “Other Continent” as an act of self-preservation and an attempt to escape a national condition.

“So, if you are able to get the weapon away from an active shooter…Well, boys, if you feel threatened, you have the right to defend yourself. Never forget that. Your safety, and the safety of those around you, is your responsibility too.”

This quote is from a transcript of a high school active shooter training video that Soot and Tasha watch. The text employs a casual tone while discussing lethal violence, demonstrating the normalization of such events. The direct address to “boys” and the invocation of self-defense rights conflate school safety with gun culture, illustrating how systemic violence is embedded in societal values.

“It’s like the gun’s volume is trying its best to find its place in this new land and the only thing it knows how to do is to be even louder than it normally would.”

After The Goon fires the narrator’s pistol in the Italian countryside, the narrator reflects on the sound. The use of personification portrays the gun as an invasive cultural artifact asserting its presence in a foreign context. This suggests that American violence is a portable and amplified condition that cannot be assimilated, disrupting the fantasy of Europe as a peaceful “Other Continent.”

“‘Here,’ he says, pointing to the soft spot in his neck, just below his Adam’s apple. ‘This is where she lived.’ […] ‘Because since I don’t have the memories of her anymore, I just have the sounds of her name and the words I want to say to her but can’t.’”

During a therapy session, Soot identifies the physical location of his grief for his daughter, Mia. This moment of embodied trauma illustrates how his pain has become a physiological presence, lodged in his throat—the source of his voice and words. The quote connects his identity as a writer with his inability to articulate his loss, highlighting how trauma can subvert the very tools of storytelling he uses for survival.

“‘We’re from Africa,’ Not Toni Morrison says. […] ‘But we’re not of it. Just like we’re from America, but none of us are of it. I’m not of any place. But breathing’s just easier over here. I’ve learned to take what I can get.’”

In conversation with the narrator, a prominent Black expatriate author articulates a core paradox of diaspora. The distinction between being “from” a place and “of” it defines the characters’ sense of alienation. Her conclusion that breathing is merely “easier” in Europe reframes the idea of the “Other Continent” not as a true home but as a pragmatic compromise, a place of managed exile rather than liberation.

“What do you do when your home doesn’t love you and all the other homes you’ve tried to make a life in don’t love you either? […] How fucked up is it that I’m jealous of any n**** that’s from somewhere that they can call their own? People like us? What do we have?”

Dylan’s emotional breakdown in Paris is an expression of the theme of the search for belonging as a marginalized people. His series of rhetorical questions reveals the psychological toll of placelessness, exposing the failure of both America and Europe to provide a true sense of home. The speech culminates with the “people like us” motif, stripping it of any positive connotation and redefining it as an identity founded on a shared lack of belonging.

“Even when they reach the ground floor and the doors open, they are both still there, in that elevator. Days later, they’re both still there, in that elevator. Years later, they’re both still there, in that elevator.”

After Soot’s gun falls in a hotel elevator, creating a moment of racialized terror, the narrative uses repetition to freeze the event in time. This stylistic choice transforms a brief incident into a perpetual state, illustrating how a single moment of trauma can become an inescapable psychological space. The passage shows how the mere presence of guns destroys any possibility of connection.

“‘Yeah. I always wanted to show you how I could hide from a shooter.’ She said it brightly, brimming with pride. ‘I would totally live if this was real,’ she said.”

After an active shooter drill, Soot’s daughter Mia expresses pride in her survival skills. The juxtaposition of her childlike excitement with the context of a school shooting illustrates the psychological scars of systemic violence. Mia’s statement reveals how the normalization of gun violence has reshaped the experience of childhood, transforming a terrifying reality into a skill to be mastered.

“We had finally made some Other Continent to call our own: The Scottish Goon, The Woman Who Swaddles the Dead, The Always-Dreaming Kid, and me…whatever I am.”

While living in isolation at Frenchie’s mansion, the narrator redefines the novel’s central symbol of the “Other Continent”. This sanctuary is presented as a found family forged from shared trauma. The narrator’s descriptive epithets for each member, culminating in his own uncertain identity, emphasize that this belonging is built on their respective wounds rather than a shared homeland.

“That whole thing about how something that doesn’t kill you serves only to make you stronger is one of the biggest lies ever told. Sometimes a thing happens and it breaks you, makes you weaker, and there ain’t no getting back to the way it was.”

During a speech, Soot offers a direct refutation of a common aphorism about resilience. This statement serves as a philosophical commentary on the permanent, debilitating nature of some traumas. The plain, declarative language strips away sentimentality, arguing that grief and violence are not strengthening experiences but destructive forces that irrevocably alter a person.

“‘You can’t fix the world,’ she says. ‘You can’t fix time. People like us, we feel it too much. We want to fix too much. And, sometimes, it just swallows us up.’”

In a surreal memory, Soot’s daughter Mia speaks to him with wisdom beyond her years. Her words define the recurring “people like us” motif as a group burdened by an overwhelming empathy and a desire to heal an unhealable world. This quote connects Mia’s death by suicide to the larger theme of memory, suggesting that Soot’s “time travel” is an attempt to fix a past that, as she states, cannot be fixed.

“Running away wasn’t never gonna fix it. You know that much, don’t you? We brought it with us, don’t you see? […] We brought it all with us—people like us, I mean.”

Immediately after the narrator accidentally shoots Dylan, Remus articulates the novel’s central thesis. His statement confirms that the violence and trauma the characters tried to escape are internal and portable, not tied to geography. The line collapses the fantasy of the “Other Continent” and clarifies that the characters cannot outrun the psychological burdens they carry.