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“All I know is that, at the end of the day, dreams don’t matter, but neither does regret. We aren’t what we want or wish for. We are only what we do.”
“When the Half Carter’s passengers disembark, you will join them and present to the customs officers the papers of Mr. Cyril Pinfield, an unremarkable tourist from Boskopeia.” “And you’re a good forger, aren’t you?” Senlin said. “Not at all! This is just part of our elaborate plan to kill you in the most roundabout way.”
Intimacy was not about maintaining the idealistic charade of courtship; it was about embracing and adoring the flaws, the very things that the headmaster of Isaugh had never been quite able to admit in himself.
Why do we call a dishonest person two-faced? Is it really so honest to wear the same face day in, day out, regardless of our mood, our condition, or the event? We are not clocks! Have a face for every occasion, I say! Be honest: Wear a mask.”
Had he squandered his only opportunity? Had he spoken too much or said too little? Would he in twenty years look back on this moment as the defining blunder of his life? “I love you,” he said. “I know you do. You wouldn’t have come here, risked so much, if you didn’t. And I love you, too. With all my heart. But this isn’t about us, Tom. This is about the lives and hearts of others. For their sake—for mine, too—I want you to get as far away from here as you can. Please.”
And more importantly, Senlin had her answer; he knew her heart. After a year of wretched ambiguity, even the certainty of rejection felt like a gift. He was filled with a buoyant sense of relief.
customs exist for two reasons: one, to identify insiders; and two, to exclude outsiders.
“Because that’s the benefit of etiquette: It tells us what to do when no one knows what to do.”
As she wrenched his head like a stubborn weed, she wondered what the morning post would make of this. LEAPING LADY CHOKES PRINCE UNTIL HE SOILS HIMSELF! She could only hope the fashion would catch on. Voleta did not hear the second shot, nor did she see it, nor did she feel the bullet when it pierced her head. Then there was no room, and there was no light, and there was no her anymore.
Only people who go to bed early believe in happy endings. We night owls understand that happiness does not dwell in finales. It resides in anticipation, in revelry, and in worn-out welcomes. Endings are always sad.
An unexpected knock on my apartment door is as welcome as the drums of an invading army.
The rich “learn lessons.” The poor commit crimes. “Mistakes” are generally considered a mark of the middle class.
“Why would I be offended? Despite not knowing the details of what’s happening, or how it’s happened, or why, you still feel informed enough to interrupt me with a critique of my plan. How could that be offensive?”
A stain is only a stain if anyone notices it. Slosh wine onto the carpet? Scoot a sofa over the spot. Spill gravy on your shirt? Fan your ascot to cover it. Spoil your political reputation with a grievous indiscretion? Start a domestic purge or a foreign war.
“My sense of being, my identity, whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t reside in my parts. It lives in my past, and in the continuity of my present thoughts, and in my hopes for the future. I’m more afraid of losing a memory than a limb.”
‘Asking nicely once is polite. Asking nicely twice is just begging.’”
A man who is not suspicious of a philosophy that appeals to his nature is like the bull comforted by the rutted path that leads to the slaughterhouse.
The music box began to play, slowly at first, but with a quickening intensity, a song that was perfect for romping and stomping and running down corridors. That was exactly what Byron hoped Ferdinand would do.
Memory is not like a box of stationery—easy to browse, reorder, and read. No, memories accumulate like leaves upon the forest floor. They are irregular and fragile. They crumble and break upon inspection. They turn to soil the deeper you go.
