“I bathed myself. Not a bird bath with a sponge, but the real thing, darkening the ring around the tub another shade. I dressed myself in the new suit, and brought the vodka down off the shelf. I took a drink, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, repeating the gesture a hundred times by my father and his father and his father’s father, eyes half closed as the sharpness of the alcohol replaced the sharpness of grief. And then when the bottle was gone, I danced. Slowly at first. But getting faster. I stomped my feet and kicked my legs, joints cracking. I pounded my feet and crouched and kicked in the dance my father danced, and his father, tears sliding down my face as I laughed and sang, danced and danced, until my feet were raw and there was blood under my toenail, I danced the only way I knew how to dance: for life, crashing into the chairs, and spinning until i fell, so that I could get up and dance again, until dawn broke and found me prostate on the floor, so close to death I could spit into it and whisper: L’chaim.”

Nicole Krauss, The history of love