Tamra

“A library implies an act of faith which generations, still in darkness hid, sign in their night in witness of the dawn."

À qui la faute? (1872)”
― Victor Hugo

“The people at home,” I said. “A lot of them call me an apple.”

Do they think you’re a fruit or something?” he asked.

No, no,” I said. “They call me an apple because they think I’m red on the outside and white on the inside.”

Ah, so they think you’re a traitor.”

Yep.”

Well, life is a constant struggle between being an individual and being a member of the community.”

Can you believe there is a kid who talks like that? Like he’s already a college professor impressed with the sound of his own voice?

Gordy,” I said. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say to me.”

Well, in the early days of humans, the community was our only protection against predators, and against starvation. We survived because we trusted one another.”

So?”

So, back in the day, weird people threatened the strength of the tribe. If you weren’t good for making food, shelter, or babies, then you were tossed out on your own.”

But we’re not primitive like that anymore.”

Oh, yes, we are. Weird people still get banished.”

You mean weird people like me,” I said.

And me,” Gordy said.

All right, then,” I said. “So we have a tribe of two.”

I had the sudden urge to hug Gordy, and he had the sudden urge to prevent me from hugging him.

Don’t get sentimental,” he said.

Yep, even the weird boys are afraid of their emotions.”
― Sherman Alexie, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian

“But what are a hundred million deaths? When one has served in a war, one hardly knows what a dead man is, after a while. And since a dead man has no substance unless one has actually seen him dead, a hundred million corpses broadcast through history are no more than a puff of smoke in the imagination.”
― Albert Camus, The Plague

“Roddy the assistant manager lived in the theater. He'd emptied out one of the supply closets. He'd installed an inflatable mattress, a Shower Anywhere portable shower, and a wee television. He slept amid the powdered-butter fumes and empty drink-syrup tanks. He had grub-white skin and Goth circles under his eyes that, unlike those of Goths, came from really, truly existing half in the world of the dead. He smelled like carpeting, Scotch tape, and steak sauce. He was almost forty but had one of those half mustaches that thirteen-year-olds have. He was the closest thing to a zombie I've yet encountered in this world.”
― Patton Oswalt, Zombie Spaceship Wasteland