Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe, #2)

by Neal Shusterman

is the plight of every child to have depth their parents can scarcely imagine. But, oh, how I long to be understood.

In the mortal age, death could not be bargained with. It had to be the same for scythes.

They were so focused on the act of killing, they couldn’t comprehend what went into the act of dying.

You may laugh when I tell you this, but I resent my own perfection. Humans learn from their mistakes. I cannot. I make no mistakes. When it comes to making decisions, I deal only in various shades of correct.

As a child, Citra always felt bad for them, even though the Thunderhead took great pains to make sure such birds—and all livestock—were raised humanely. Citra had seen a video on it in third grade. The turkeys, from the moment of their hatching, were suspended in a warm gel, and their small brains were wet-wired into a computer that produced for them an artificial reality in which they experienced flight, freedom, reproduction, and all the things that would make a turkey content.

Simply put, humanity had a need to be bad. Not everyone, of course—but I calculated that 3 percent of the population could only find meaning in life through defiance. Even if there was no injustice in the world left to defy, they had an innate need to defy something. Anything.

measuring one’s success. I help every citizen find employment that is fulfilling for them. Of course, very few of the jobs are necessary, since they could all be accomplished by machines—but the illusion of purpose is critical to a well-adjusted population.

While freedom gives rise to growth and enlightenment, permission allows evil to flourish in a light of day that would otherwise destroy it.

An arrogant head of state gives permission to all nature of hate as long as it feeds his ambition. And the unfortunate truth is, people devour it. Society gorges itself, and rots. Permission is the bloated corpse of freedom.

finding easy scapegoats for complicated problems had been a human pastime since the first mob of cavemen struck someone down with a rock.

“The end doesn’t always justify the means, dear,” she said. “But sometimes it does. Wisdom is knowing the difference.”