Scythe (Arc of a Scythe, #1)

by Neal Shusterman

We are instructed to write down not just our deeds but our feelings, because it must be known that we do have feelings. Remorse. Regret. Sorrow too great to bear. Because if we didn’t feel those things, what monsters would we be?

Hope in the shadow of fear is the world’s most powerful motivator.

The ending of human life used to be in the hands of nature. But we stole it. Now we have a monopoly on death. We are its sole distributor.

The last thing you want to do is laugh at a scythe.

For all his bulk and bravado, Kohl Whitlock was just a scared little kid. Is that what everyone became in the end? Rowan supposed only a scythe could know.

“Are you telling me how to do my job?” “I’m asking you for some mercy!”

Death makes the whole world kin.

“Be warned that you will not receive kindness from anyone but me for what you did here today,” he said. “But remember that good intentions pave many roads. Not all of them lead to hell.”

But like so many things, once we had possession of infinite knowledge, it suddenly seemed less important. Less urgent. Yes, we know everything, but I often wonder if anyone bothers to look at all that knowledge.

2042 is the year we conquered death, and also the year we stopped counting. Sure, we still numbered years for a few more decades, but at the moment of immortality, passing time ceased to matter.

If he could have gotten away with it, Rowan would have pushed him over the railing—but attacks against scythes were not tolerated. The punishment was the gleaning of the offender’s entire family. It was a consequence that ensured the safety of the revered bringers of death.

Perhaps. But now that you know what you’re looking for in this art of the dying, I want you to try to feel it.” And he led them to the next gallery. Although Rowan was sure he’d feel nothing, he was wrong.

“Why would we compete for something that neither of us wants?” Citra asked. “Therein lies the paradox of the profession,” Faraday said. “Those who wish to have the job should not have it… and those who would most refuse to kill are the only ones who should.”

In the end it was the art that did it. The canvases haunted his dreams that night. What must life have been like in the Age of Mortality? Full of passions, both good and bad. Fear giving rise to faith. Despair giving meaning to elation. They say even the winters were colder and the summers were warmer in those days.

To live between the prospects of an unknown eternal sky and a dark, enveloping Earth must have been glorious—for how else could it have given rise to such magnificent expression? No one created anything of value anymore—but if, by gleaning, he could bring back a hint of what once was, it might be worth it.

And it occurred to her that being a scythe was like being the living dead. In the world, but apart from it. Just a witness to the comings and goings of others.

Now, for the first time in history, law was no longer the shadow of justice, it was justice.

I do not regret the decision, but I often wonder if the Thunderhead would have done a better job.

A lesson for both of you: A scythe doesn’t have to follow through on a threat for it to be effective.”

“I feel bad for you,” said Citra. “Even when you’re food shopping, death is hiding right behind the milk.” “It never hides,” the scythe told them with a world-weariness that was hard to describe. “Nor does it sleep. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

Lingering and paying respects are two different things. I attend the funerals of all the people I glean.” “Is that a scythe rule?” Rowan asked, having never been to a funeral. “No, it’s my rule,” he told them. “It’s called ‘common decency.’ ”

For to put oneself above all other laws is a fundamental recipe for disaster.

“Where do I go now?” she asked. “Well,” I explained calmly, “your memories and life recording are already stored in the Thunderhead, so it won’t be lost. Your body is returned to the earth in a manner determined by your next of kin.” “Yes, I know all that,” she said. “But what about me?” The question perplexed me. “As I said, your memory construct will exist in the Thunderhead. Loved ones will be able to talk to it, and your construct will respond.” “Yes,” she said, getting a bit agitated, “but what about me?” I gleaned her then. Only after she was gone did I say, “I don’t know.” —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

:(

Rowan looked to the screen, grimacing, and pointed to the man with bed-hair. “Him,” Rowan said. “Glean him.” Rowan closed his eyes. He had just condemned a man to death because he’d had a bad hair day. Then he felt Faraday put a firm hand on his shoulder. He thought he’d get a reprimand, but instead, the scythe said, “Well done.” Rowan opened his eyes. “Thank you, sir.” “Were this not the hardest thing you’ve ever done, I’d be concerned.” “Does it ever get easier?” Rowan asked. “I certainly hope not,” the scythe said.

“That was impressive,” she told Rowan on the long ride home. “Yeah, right until I puked on the riverbank.” “But that was only after he was gleaned,” Citra pointed out. “You gave that man strength to face death.” Rowan shrugged. “I guess.” Citra found it both maddening and endearing how modest he could be.

It reminds me that in spite of our lofty ideals and the many safeguards to protect the Scythedom from corruption and depravity, we must always be vigilant, because power comes infected with the only disease left to us: the virus called human nature. I fear for us all if scythes begin to love what they do. —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

“You can’t solve everything by tweaking your nanites,” her mother told her. “You need to learn self-control.” Well, she could learn self-control tomorrow. Today she wanted pizza.

Lol

She was not a slim girl, so she thought the skinniest thoughts she could,

We are not the same beings we once were. So then, if we are no longer human, what are we? —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

The sanctity of the law… and the wisdom to know when it must be broken.

He raised an eyebrow. “You misunderstand. This is not a punishment. Curiosity is human; I merely allowed you to get it out of your system. I have to say, it took you long enough.” Then he gave her a little conspiratorial grin. “Now let’s see how long it takes Rowan to go for the ring.”

I shudder to think how many more scythes it would take, and how many gleanings would be required, if we ever need to curb population growth altogether. —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

The boy is smart, but too quick to anger. It’s a fatal flaw that cannot be tolerated.”

Will we all be renaissance children, skilled at every art and science, because we’ve had the time to master them? Or will boredom and slavish routine plague us even more than it does today, giving us less of a reason to live limitless lives? I dream of the former, but suspect the latter. —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

Wow

Will the scythe who replaces me be as compassionate and fair? I can accept a world without me in it… but I can’t bear the thought of other scythes gleaning in my absence. —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

“Be a student of observation,” Curie told Citra.

Death was unfamiliar to most of them. It needed to exist in its own bubble, as long as they could stay just beyond its outer edge, peering in.

And Scythe Curie listened—truly listened—as if she were intent on memorizing everything they said. More than once her eyes moistened, reflecting the tears of the family.

After they were gone, Scythe Curie helped Citra with the dishes. “When you’re a scythe,” she told Citra, “I’m sure you won’t do things my way. You won’t do things the way Scythe Faraday did, either. You’ll find your own path. It may not bring you redemption, it might not even bring you peace, but it will keep you from despising yourself.”

Immortality has turned us all into cartoons. —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

“There’s a very old expression,” Scythe Goddard told him. “ ‘To be painless is to be gainless.’ ” He gripped Rowan warmly on the shoulder. “And I wish you to gain much.”

noooooooo :(

“But what about your real name? The one you were born with?” Scythe Curie took her time in answering. Finally she said, “There’s no one in my life who knows me by that name.”

“Never lose your humanity,” Scythe Faraday had told him, “or you’ll be nothing more than a killing machine.”

Yet this great plain of numbness was not the worst place to be. Numbness was a mere purgatory of gray. No, there was a much worse place. Darkness masquerading as enlightenment. It was a place of royal blue studded with diamonds that glistened like stars.

How life can become...

We became unnatural the moment we conquered death, Scythe Faraday would say—but couldn’t that be a reason to seek whatever nature we could find within ourselves? If he learned to enjoy gleaning, would it be such a tragedy?

Volta nodded. “You felt some—but just a shadow of what it can be. Without the threat of suffering, we can’t experience true joy. The best we get is pleasantness.”

Damn this is so true

I’ll tell you what I think,” Rowan said. “Goddard isn’t a scythe. He’s a killer.” It was the first time Rowan dared to say it out loud. “There’s a lot written about killers from the mortal age—monsters like Jack the Ripper, or Charlie Manson, or Cyber Sally—and the only difference between them and Goddard is that people let Goddard get away with it. The mortals knew how wrong it was, but somehow we’ve forgotten.”

I am legend. Yet every day I wish that I was not. —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

“The world has a talent for rewarding bad behavior with stardom,” Scythe Curie said, as she viewed some of the videos that had been uploaded.

“I’m not unhappy,” she told me. “I’m just… done.”