Devoted

by Dean Koontz

The difficulties of communication meant they couldn’t share their lives to the fullest extent that Megan desired, which was a persistent sadness. This kid had broken her heart a thousand times, but with his sweetness, he had also healed it a thousand times.

Woody was embarrassed for people who believed stupid science, which a lot of them did. He was also embarrassed for people who got angry over petty things, for people who called other people names, for people who were mean to animals. For a lot of reasons, a great many people made him embarrassed for them.

One of the most embarrassing things about people was how unobservant they were.

Mother Nature wasn’t really motherly. Mom said nature was more like a bipolar aunt who treated you kindly most of the time but, now and then, could be a real witch, conjuring killer storms and vicious animals, like big toothy mountain lions that, if given a menu, would always order tender children.

Love was the best thing when you had it, and the most terrible thing when it was taken from you.

In his hunger, he forgot for the moment that not all people were good. If even a hundred of them were kind, there would be one whose every intention was wicked.

Even a girl raised in poverty and without love could entertain such a feeling. Perhaps it was especially true of a girl raised in poverty and without love, who had no hope other than what she spun from her imagination.

Verna refused to vote for any of the current political parties on the ballot. She was waiting for a new party to be formed that she called “the Common Damn Sense Party.”

Stories were the greatest blessing of intelligence. They were food for the soul. They were medicine.

You could live a thousand lives through stories—and learn to shape your own life into a story of the best kind.

Kipp knew—and Woody Bookman knew but now came to understand in mind and heart and soul—that simplicity in human affairs was the way of truth, and complexity the way of deceit. That envy and coveting were poisons from which arose the lust for power and all evil. That love was the antidote to envy and coveting. That truth was essential for the flourishing of love. That love was essential to maintain innocence. That peace of mind and perfect happiness could be achieved only through the truth of innocence and the simplicity of truth.

“Just because he is child and stupid, the nevezhda should not be spared,” Boris Sergetov declared. “Krugovaia otvetstvennost—collective responsibility. She popped him from her oven, fed him from her tit. He is our enemy no less than she. They are turds from the same bowel. Flush them both away.” To Frank Gatz, Ludlow said, “Your friend is so eloquent. Does he write poetry for the corporate newsletter? If not, you ought to let him have a page, see if maybe you have another Robert Frost among you.”

“By the way,” Johnson said, “there’s no doubt about it now.” “No doubt about what?” “Fenton’s brain is gone.” Eckman grimaced. “I thought that was already obvious.” “Well, Jim Harmon had to make a thorough search.” “Did he expect to find it in a desk drawer?” “You never know with a lunatic like this.”

As they returned to poker, Rodchenko said, “These are damn good doughnuts.” “One dozen for four of us,” said Speer. “Your share is three.” “What? If I eat four, you’ll shoot me?” “We could do the job with just three of us,” Speer said. “Easily,” said Knacker. “If we had to,” said Verbotski. Because none of those present was a man known for his sense of humor, Rodchenko did not take a fourth doughnut.