Her voice was quiet and matter-of-fact, but there was a quality of muted exhilaration in it too. I recognized that note at once, for I had heard it before: in Molyka's voice, for example, when she spoke of the first years after the Pol Pot time, when slowly, patiently, she had picked through the rubble around her, building a life for herself and her family. I was to hear it again and again in Cambodia, most often in the voices of women.
(Yes, raging crush in full effect. Probably exacerbated by the extreme silver foxiness of one of his book-jacket photos. I read this piece in a collection of essays called Incendiary Circumstances and I think I might recommend it above his fiction, if you are intrigued enough by my gushing to check him out. The end of this essay made me cry.)
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