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Israel Pike was a killer, and he was an honest man. They were not mutually exclusive. Even with his uncle, whom he hated more than anyone alive, he hadn’t lied. He wasn’t an unreliable narrator. He was a withholder.
The thing Israel had not counted on was his father’s perception of the past. To Israel, going to the island was a chance to discuss what could still be saved. To Charlie, it was an opportunity to discuss what had already been lost. What was beyond recovery or redemption.
“I don’t want an informant. I want an honest man who lives on that island.”
That you shouldn’t bury the past and you shouldn’t idealize it, that either approach was poison. You had to consider the past with clear eyes and a calm heart.
Charlie Pike wasn’t disappointed in his son for failing to do the right thing; he was disgusted with him for thinking the right thing mattered. For thinking small.
The wrong idea. Lyman wanted to ask him how the truth could be wrong, but he knew better than to do that. The truth was usually trouble for his father.
“The enemy must believe you have both the capacity and the will to deliver on anything you threaten—and that threat should be untenable to them.”
They mocked the woman because they were afraid of the woman—or of something inside themselves—and they tried to hide that weakness with meanness.
