The House in the Cerulean Sea (Cerulean Chronicles, #1)

by T.J. Klune

“The things we fear the most are often the things we should fear the least. It’s irrational, but it’s what makes us human. And if we’re able to conquer those fears, then there is nothing we’re not capable of.”

“There’s music everywhere, Mr. Baker. You just have to learn to listen for it.”

“It’s not only this village, Mr. Baker. Just because you don’t experience prejudice in your everyday doesn’t stop it from existing for the rest of us.”

“Exactly. To err is to be human, irrational or not. And while some mistakes are bigger than others, if we learn from them, we become better people. Even if we have spiders in our brains.”

“Humanity is so weird. If we’re not laughing, we’re crying or running for our lives because monsters are trying to eat us. And they don’t even have to be real monsters. They could be the ones we make up in our heads. Don’t you think that’s weird?” “I suppose. But I’d rather be that way than the alternative.” “Which is?” “Not feeling anything at all.” Linus looked away.

“My point remains the same as it is in my sessions with Lucy. The world likes to see things in black and white, in moral and immoral. But there is gray in between. And just because a person is capable of wickedness, doesn’t mean they will act upon it. And then there is the notion of perceived immorality. I highly doubt Chauncey would even consider laying a tentacle on another person in violence, even if it meant protecting himself. And yet people see him and decide based upon his appearance that he is something monstrous.”

“When something is broken, you can put it back together. It may not fit quite the same, or work like it did once before, but that doesn’t mean it’s no longer useful. Look, see? A bit of glue and a bit of luck, and it’ll be right as rain. Why, hanging on your wall, you wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference.”

“The way some people can be. But as long as you remember to be just and kind like I know you are, what those people think won’t matter in the long run. Hate is loud, but I think you’ll learn it’s because it’s only a few people shouting, desperate to be heard. You might not ever be able to change their minds, but so long as you remember you’re not alone, you will overcome.”

“A home isn’t always the house we live in. It’s also the people we choose to surround ourselves with.

It’s the little things, I expect. Little treasures we find without knowing their origin. And they come when we least expect them. It’s beautiful, when you think about it.

“You do, Mr. Baker. Arthur told me that there can be magic in the ordinary.”

A home isn’t always the house we live in. It’s also the people we choose to surround ourselves with. You may not live on the island, but you can’t tell me it’s not your home. Your bubble, Mr. Baker. It’s been popped. Why would you allow it to grow around you again?

“Let me tell you something, Linus Baker,” she said, hands clenched on the top of the driver’s door. “There are moments in your life, moments when chances have to be taken. It’s scary because there is always the possibility of failure. I know that. I know that. Because once upon a time, I took a chance on a man that I had failed before. I was scared. I was terrified. I thought I might lose everything. But I wasn’t living, then. The life I had before wasn’t living. It was getting by. And I will never regret the chances I took. Because it brought me to them. To all of them. I made my choice. And you’re making yours.” She opened the door and got in the car. The engine turned over. She looked back at him just once when she said, “Don’t you wish things could be different?” “Don’t you wish you were here?” he whispered, but she wouldn’t have heard him. By the time he finished speaking, she was away, sand kicking up from the tires.

He was but paper, brittle and thin, and he clutched the photograph to his chest, hugging it close.

We are who we are not because of our birthright, but because of what we choose to do in this life. It cannot be boiled down to black and white. Not when there is so much in between. You cannot say something is moral or immoral without understanding the nuances behind it.”

“Funny how that works out, isn’t it? That we can find the most unexpected things when we aren’t even looking for them.”

“I am but paper. Brittle and thin. I am held up to the sun, and it shines right through me. I get written on, and I can never be used again. These scratches are a history. They’re a story. They tell things for others to read, but they only see the words, and not what the words are written upon. I am but paper, and though there are many like me, none are exactly the same. I am parched parchment. I have lines. I have holes. Get me wet, and I melt. Light me on fire, and I burn. Take me in hardened hands, and I crumple. I tear. I am but paper. Brittle and thin.”

“Yes. It’s time, I think. To let the past rest. Take something filled with anger and sadness and make it better.”