The Passenger (The Passenger #1)

by Cormac McCarthy

But I will tell you Squire that having read even a few dozen books in common is a force more binding than blood.

Host and sorrow to waste as one without distinction until the wretched coagulant is shoveled into the ground at last and the rain primes the stones for fresh tragedies.

We would hardly wish to know ourselves again as once we were and yet we mourn the days.

Mercy is the province of the person alone. There is mass hatred and there is mass grief. Mass vengeance and even mass suicide. But there is no mass forgiveness. There is only you.