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Rise the Euphrates, my first novel, grew out of a feverish dream.

On the other side of Paris an exhibit depicts their home, which is nowhere.

I found it impossible to forget that we lived in a poor country.

I read cookbooks the way I do poetry, with a willingness to be transported.

We have mysterious inclinations. No one can explain it to us.

I try to get her to drink again. We were okay drunks, before Jesus.

In school, he was called gook, chink, and one boy called him ching-chong.

Son, do you know of shame? Then you must know that I cannot feel it.

Emil was busy applying his anger therapy, and it was working.

In search of the life we all agree is so desirable—art, romance, freedom!

Until now the man had not really lived, but simply existed, to be sure.

Loved this little portal to my past so much that I went looking for others.

He probably should have arrested or at least reported me to someone.

This is what he must have felt when she told him about her affair.

At straight-up noon, the honeymoon was ruined, one day in.

I have three girls from my previous marriages, but she beats them all.

Gurov reflected, “it wouldn’t be a bad idea to make her acquaintance.”

He’ll probably try to get her in the sack, just to stay in practice.

Each night I curl my body around a small piece of silence.

If you want to know what to write, ask yourself what obsesses you.

The golden-haired ones, they think they’re better than Virgin Mary.

Spanish men. They whispered and whistled. It made her jumpy.

I tell my sister what I didn’t tell my father, I love you. Please, don’t die.

We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.

The laughter rises like the roar of a train as the men leap to their feet.

“I don’t care how tired we are. I’m not not having sex on my wedding night.”

A dead body leaned sideways against a wall. Its eyes were open.

We enjoyed the infidelity. A great deal more than they seemed to.

We’re tired. In bed, we hold hands. We watch TV. But do you want more?

Best-selling author Melanie Gideon reads from her novel Wife 22.