"I knew only a part of his story. I knew him playing the violin on a dairy crate in the morning sun, suspended somewhere between boy genius and lost traveller. Every night, my friend Nathaniel tucks his instruments away and lays his head amongst the predators and hustlers, among fallen drunks sprawled in the streets, as rats the size of meatloaves dart out of the drains to feed off the squalor."
— Steve Lopez
"He says this is his choice. Should I take him at his word or should I try to force him in? Wouldn’t a little arm-twisting be more humane than leaving him here on the streets in this lost colony of broken, helpless souls?"
— Steve Lopez
"I mean, it’s the same hall, we’re listening to the same goddamn music, but no, I’m watching him, he’s watching the music. While they’re playing, I say, my God, there’s something higher out there and he’s in it and he’s with it."
— Steve Lopez to his ex-wife
