More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Books were regarded with suspicion at best, especially when carried by someone from south of the Canal. Pervert Mags were safer.
When the entire group was wearing them, Ben Richards felt as if he had lost his face.
Reminds me of bootcamp
Maybe only because it needed to be said once, to make it coalesce and take concrete shape, as things do when a man forces himself to translate unformed emotional reactions into spoken words.
God....thats good writing
August 8, 1997,
About the same age im march 1997
“What if I could go up?” he asked, and gestured with his head toward the ceiling and the eighty stories above the ceiling. “Who could I kill up there? Who could I kill if I went right to the top?”
The taste of the claustrophobia became huge, gagging. Trapped, his mind babbled. Trapped in here, trapped, trapped—
God this is good
He understood well enough how a man with a choice between pride and responsibility will almost always choose pride—if responsibility robs him of his manhood.
Interesting
he had felt a constant panic that came from knowing he was alone and unknown, drifting free. He awoke sometimes at three in the morning to the rotted-cabbage smell of the one-room tenement flat with terror lodged in the deepest chamber of his soul. He was his own man.
God thats deep
Hopelessness filled him like cold water. There was no base of communication with these beautiful chosen ones.
They looked oddly incomplete, like pictures with holes for eyes or a jigsaw puzzle with a minor piece missing. It was a lack of desperation, Richards thought. No wolves howled in these bellies. These minds were not filled with rotted, crazed dreams or mad hopes.
God thats good writing
“Ben,” Killian said with infinite gentleness, “your wife and daughter are dead. They’ve been dead for over ten days.”
Omg
Their names came and repeated, clanging in his mind like bells, like words repeated until they are reduced to nonsense. Say your name over two hundred times and discover you are no one.
