“seem to understand. With three walled”
“I’ve always thought that God placed Spain where He did to keep things organized.” Don Ramón arranged dishes and rolls to represent Europe. “Lesser nations all around her. Portugal here, and what a sorry land that is. France up here, a bunch of troublemakers. England over here, accch!” The harsh guttural showed what he thought of England. “And down here the despicable Moors, enemies of God and man.” In the center of this maelstrom of failed nations and infidels he placed a bright orange: “Spain: God’s bastion of reason, and stability, and all the things that represent goodness in this life.”
“And here …” Now the orange became Tejas: “In the middle of this mess, Tejas, Spanish to the core, God’s bastion, just as in Europe.” He patted the orange, reveling in its security, and said: “God arranges these things according to His grand design. Believe me, Trinidad, Tejas is not where it is by accident. And you’re not in Tejas by accident. Your destiny is to rear Spanish sons who will build there cities much finer than New Orleans.”
“Garcilaço had stumbled upon one of the greatest treasures a boy can find: a man of dignity whom he would like to emulate.”
“I doubt, dearest child, that you could ever marry a Frenchman. They’re not dependable. I’ve never believed that they’re serious Catholics.” He”
“But the new priest in town, this Father Ybarra, who had come north to see if the missions should be closed down, absolutely forbade her to step foot inside Santa Teresa: “This place is not for women. If God had intended you to enter these precincts, he would have made women friars.”
“honor included not only physical and moral courage but also a daring commitment to central beliefs,”
“No one looks at us. We might as well be invisible; or clothing marks us as strangers, transients. They are polite, so polite; no one stares at us.”
“Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who indeed knows why there can be comfort in a world of desolation? Now God be thanked that there is a beloved one who can lift up the heart in suffering, that one can play with a child in the face of such misery. Now God be thanked that the name of a hill is such music, that the name of a river can heal. Aye, even the name of a river that runs no more.
Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who knows for what we live, and struggle and die? Who knows what keeps us living and struggling, while all things break about us? Who knows why the warm flesh of a child is such comfort, when one's own child is lost and cannot be recovered? Wise men write many books, in words too hard to understand. But this, the purpose of our lives, the end of all our struggle, is beyond all human wisdom.”
“Is this how humanity waves good-bye?
Hell no.”
“See, the world is full of things more powerful than us. But if you know how to catch a ride, you can go places,”
“Simon: Anyone ever tell you your sense of timing really sucks?
Derek: That's why I don't play the drums. Now what's up?”
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