The Desolations of Devil's Acre (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #6)

by Ransom Riggs

Sometimes an old photograph, an old friend, an old letter will remind you that you are not who you once were, for the person who dwelt among them, valued this, chose that, wrote thus, no longer exists. Without noticing it you have traversed a great distance; the strange has become familiar and the familiar if not strange at least awkward or uncomfortable.

I’ve lost my soul, I’m afraid, but I can’t remember how.

“I’m not allowed in most libraries,”

One of the guards started patting down Enoch’s thighs. “Aww, no kiss first?” he said.

“Miss Wren, please,” Enoch said. “She’s dead, not deaf.”

“Ahhh,” he said, steam escaping his lips. “When you’re as old as I am, coffee’s practically the only thing keeping you alive.”

“As with any great endeavor,” she said. “Better to die trying. Better to burn out than fade away.”

that would become their home. And, perhaps, their grave.

How many people would spend their lives among shades and ghosts, were they able? Every parent who’d lost a child, every lover who’d lost a mate: If they had the choice, wouldn’t most do the same?

We’re all riddled with holes, and there were days when I would’ve done anything to patch mine, if just for a while.

How something so simple could feel so reassuring was both a mystery and a miracle.

“Just because no one remembers your name doesn’t mean your life wasn’t worth something.”

Tis better to have fought and lost, than never to have fought at all,’”

I could say what I wanted to say and leave, and they couldn’t hurt me any more than they already had.

“Nothing is dead: men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals and mournful obituaries, and there they stand looking out of the window, sound and well, in some new and strange disguise.”

In the end, our real home had always been one another. And a real home was all I’d ever wanted.