"The ship that took me to America rode, for a while, over the same waters into which Edward's body had been thrown. I felt better once we got out into the Atlantic. Not that I had forgotten him, but my guilt had become manageable. The human capacity for pain being limited, you find you can’t inflict nearly so much on yourself as you can on someone else (or as someone else can on you). Thus you run away from the pain inflicters, you go to a new place and, because it is new, try to convince yourself that the old place no longer exists; that distance erases history; that the boy who died because of you belonged to only your imagination and therefore never died, and therefore his mother, his sisters, and his survivors survive no one, nothing; they are just people getting on with their lives.
And if you loved this boy, if you are his survivor as much as well as his killer, then you must sacrifice the memory of your love. You must bury grief if guilt is to be endured. As I did, in Los Angeles, for thirty-one years."
- David Leavitt, While England Sleeps, Houghton Mifflin, 1993