“The heart is a demanding tenant; it frequently makes a strong argument against common sense.”
“The heart is a demanding tenant”
“When you fall in love, every kind of reason flies out the newly opened window of your brain.”
“Remember this, Dorrie: Some men are just plain bad news. Then there are good men. They'll do. Then there are good men you love. If you find one of the last kind, you'd better hang on to him with everything you have.”
“I felt I knew him completely, and the knowledge could be pored into a single coffee cup.”
“The only person I needed to trust was myself. The other road had too many curves, and I wanted to see straight ahead.”
“I really do think it all boiled down to fear. She was so worried about what the people around us would think, she forgot about … me.”
“A grin split his face like a sunrise.”
“I’d have loathed having the word pastel associated with me ever, whether applied to my appearance or my personality.”
“Things I’d been sure of before, I questioned now.”
“Sometimes the good ones surprise you. Sometimes they stick around longer than you'd think --- after they should have given up.”
“You’re so different, after all. But then this thing surprises you, sticking longer than you ever predicted, and you begin to rely on it, and that relationship whittles down your walls, little by little, until you realize you know that one person better than almost anyone. You’re really and truly friends.”
“surround you, they amaze me. That”
“Some men are just plain bad news. Then there are good men. They'll do. Then there are good men you love. If you find one of the last kind, you'd better hang on to him with everything you have.”
“Some men are just Olin bad news. Then there are good men. They'll do. Then there are good men you love. If you find the last one of the last kind, you'd better hang on to him with every thing you have.”
“earth. In case you missed it, it’s now perfectly acceptable for whites and blacks to have relationships. To be friends or relatives. Or lovers.”
“Amon murmured against my neck, "You taste like melted desert honey.”
“I did—and if my stomach hadn’t been emptier than the sky before a migration, I might have been sick with it.”
“I will ride horses like wind I will warm my hands at fires I will savor darkened wines I will not think of the road’s end.”
“Oh? I thought you were a soldier. Is it not your purpose, to make endings? Is it not your duty to make these”—she taps the corpse—“from the soldiers of the enemy?” “That’s a gross perversion of the idea of soldiering,” says Mulaghesh. “Then please,” says Rada, looking up. “Enlighten me.” She is not being sarcastic or combative, Mulaghesh realizes. Rather, she is willing to follow any string of conversation down the path it leads, much like she’s willing to follow a damaged vein through a desiccated corpse. The surgery room is quiet as Mulaghesh thinks, the silence broken only by the tinkle of Rada’s utensils and the soft hush of the rain. “The word everyone forgets,” says Mulaghesh, “is ‘serve.’ ” “Serve?” “Yes. Serve. This is the service, and we soldiers are servants. Sure, when people think of a soldier, they think of soldiers taking. They think of us taking territory, taking the enemy, taking a city or a country, taking treasure, or blood. This grand, abstract idea of ‘taking,’ as if we were pirates, swaggering and brandishing our weapons, bullying and intimidating people. But a soldier, a true soldier, I think, does not take. A soldier gives.” “Gives what?” “Anything,” says Mulaghesh. “Everything, if asked of us. We’re servants, as I said. A soldier serves not to take, they don’t strive to have something, but rather they strive so that others might one day have something. And a blade isn’t a happy friend to a soldier, but a burden, a heavy one, to be used scrupulously and carefully. A good soldier does everything they can so they do not have to kill. That’s what training is for. But if we have to, we will. And when we do that we give up some part of ourselves, as we’re asked to do.” “What part do you give up, do you think?” asks Rada. “Peace, maybe. Killing echoes inside you. It never goes away. Maybe some who have killed don’t know that they’ve lost something, but they have.” “That is so,” says Rada quietly. “Deaths of all kinds echo on. And sometimes, it seems, they drown out all of life.”
“Every war was the precursor for the wars that followed, a slaughter that justified the slaughters to come. And”
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