The Fall of Babel (The Books of Babel #4)

by Josiah Bancroft

But now that he was surrounded by people who esteemed him, he felt no less hollow, no less incomplete. And it occurred to him that the only approval he’d never courted, and certainly never won, was his own.

But Ida’s death appeared to leave Runa with something much worse than a wound. It left her with one side of an argument that could never be answered and a grievance that could not be heard.

Home was a ritual that harmonized with the melody of a day.

Byron hated tea. He hated its bitter taste and the tannic dryness it inspired in the mouth. He hated the smell of it, an aroma like soured wood pulp, and he hated the stains it left in his cups and on his tablecloths. Yet he drank it because he absolutely adored teatime.

“Of course,” Byron said, suffering a flurry of shame. “She tried to get away. I stopped her.” “It’s like that for a long time.” Ann took Olivet, and Byron pretended not to notice her subtle inspection of his work. “Then one day, they finally do escape, and you don’t feel free. You just feel left behind.”

Do not waste the limited resource of your patience on those who think misery a competition. Spendthrifts of self-pity are always miserly the moment empathy is due.

What had life been for if not to charge upon the darkness, to show the unknown she was unafraid?