Flight

What kind of life can you have in a house without books?

I learned how to stop crying. I learned how to hide inside of myself. I learned how to be somebody else. I learned how to be cold and numb.

Yes, I am Irish and Indian, which would be the coolest blend in the world if my parents were around to teach me how to be Irish and Indian. But they're not here and haven't been for years, so I'm not really Irish or Indian. I am a blank sky, a human solar eclipse.

Is revenge a circle inside of a circle inside of a circle?

I hate my country. There are so many rich people who don't share their shit. They're like spoiled little ten-year-old bullies on the playground. They hog the monkey bars and the slide and the seesaw. And if you complain even a little bit, if you try to get just one spin on the merry-go-round, the bullies beat the shit out of you.

They put me in a holding cell with a black kid and a white kid and a Chinese kid. We're the United Nations of juvenile delinquents.

Then I remember that God is really, really old. So maybe God has God arthritis. And maybe that's why the world sucks. Maybe God's hands and fingers don't work as well as they used to.

But I'm also addicted to books. And I know there has never been a human being or a television show, no matter how great, that could measure up to a great book.

Is there really a difference between that killing and this killing? Does God approve of some killing and not other killing? If I kill these soldiers so that Small Saint and Bow Boy can escape, does that make me a hero?

I bet you a million dollars there are less than five books in this whole house. What kind of life can you have in a house without books?

How can you tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys when they say the same things?

But now I want it to pour. I want it to storm. I want to be clean.

I am surrounded by people who trust me to be a respectful stranger

I measure men by the content of their character, not the color of their skin, and I find all of them are assholes.

If you can catch crazy, I'm a walking epidemic.

They're not starving to death, but they look hollow-eyed and barren, like they've been fed just enough food but never enough happiness.

My heart is beating a punk rock song against my chest.

I am surrounded by people who trust me to be a respectful stranger. Am I trustworthy? Are any of us trustworthy? I hope so.

People smell different, too. Sometimes you meet people and you think they're nice and decent, and it seems like you might be friends. But you get closer to them and they stink. They smell like rotten fish or dead racoons or something. And you just have to run away. Later, you mention the bad smell to your other friends and they say they didn't smell anything different. That stink is reserved especially for you. But, hey, it works the other way, too. Sometimes you meet a person, and you catch the scent and it's like you've smelled a garden in Heaven, because all you want to do is follow that person around and breathe in for the rest of your life. And later you mention this great scent to your other friends, and they say they didn't smell anything different.

I'm dying from about ninety-nine kinds of shame

And anger is never added to anger. It multiplies.

My memory is strange that way. I often remember people I've never met and events and places I've never seen. I don't think I'm some mystical bastard. I just think I pay attention to the details.

I know there has never been a human being or a television show, no matter how great, that could measure up to a great book.