Arm of the Sphinx (The Books of Babel, #2)

by Josiah Bancroft

He felt a sudden suspicion that this was not an elaborate escape attempt: It was suicide in a state of denial.

We are, each of us, a multitude. I am not the man I was this morning, nor the man of yesterday. I am a throng of myself queued through time. We are, gentle reader, each a crowd within a crowd.

Believe me, I understand what I am, Luc Marat. What I don’t understand is why you think you have the right to judge me.”

The man or woman who is rarely lost rarely discovers anything new.

“I think we need a new knock,” he said. “Maybe something like, hard, soft, hard.” He rapped the pattern out upon his bedside table. “How does that sound?” “Fine, but what is it for?” “Well, it’s just our way of saying all those awkward things we’d rather not say out loud. Things like, ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just shouting at ghosts.’” “Oh, I see. Could it also say, ‘I’m sorry I ruined lunch by storming out like a spoiled brat?’” She delivered the pattern on the table: hard, soft, hard. “Absolutely,” he said. “That is exactly the sort of thing it would say.” “Between the two of us, I think this knock will get a lot of use.”

Edith gave him a reassuring smile he felt he did not deserve. He had been cavalier; he had brushed her doubts aside. And still she smiled at him. What a marvelous gift.

“I agree,” the Sphinx said. “With what part?” Senlin asked. “The agreeable part.”

What possible qualifications in the archival arts could a cat hold?

Routine is rather like the egg whites in a batter: It imparts little flavor, but it holds everything together.

Other friendships seem to arise spontaneously, like an egg in a nest or a freckle upon an arm, and these are often mystifying, as both parties are left to wonder how exactly this unexpected affection took hold.

my affection has little to do with my loyalty, and my loyalty has less to do with my behavior.

“I would very much like to see that,” she said. Voleta turned to find the Sphinx had taken off her mask.

If Squit wanted to run away, that was her prerogative, just as it was Voleta’s prerogative to chase her.

“Why in the world would you trust me with such a thing?” “Because I want to, and you want to be trusted,”

The gaps in a library are like footprints in the sand: They show us where others have gone before; they assure us we are not alone.

Hope. What is its dimension? How long is it? Where does it lead? When does it become habitual, automatic, the answer not only to doubt, but also to action, and redemption, and living?

I thought of the coincidental embraces we shared, all the occasions when fate put us in each other’s arms, an innocent thing, but not unaware. Not without feeling. And I wanted to survive, because if I did, I knew I would see her again.

Home. What a funny word to use for all that lies behind me.

The question I keep returning to is this: When does chasing after lost love turn into self-loathing? Can a soul be loved quite sincerely and just as sincerely be lost?

I must forgive myself. I must beg the pardons that I owe. And I must decide to make my life more than a tribute to past failures.

I woke up this morning thinking about what I had written last night, which is never a good sign.

If there were some form of verse composed only of ellipses, interjections, and parentheses, I would be a bard!

Familiarity is such a cataract.

“We all have weaknesses. Not everyone has strengths.”

Things are different now. You have friends. Not borrowed friends, but friends of your own. And as wonderful as that is, it’s terribly complicating. For the first time, you are confronted by feelings you can neither grasp nor throttle. You finally have something to lose, and it frightens you.”

They’d been broken and glued back together so many times it was a miracle they retained their shape, a miracle they could still be filled and hold anything inside of them.