“Be sure of your heart before you speak.”
“In the darkness of night,
Demons strut, taunting, goading.
In the light of day,
Angels sing glorious songs.
In the time in between,
We live our lives alone and searching.
And sometimes, softly,
You understand damnation.
All is forgotten, all is lost,
All but forgiveness
And the memory of her kiss.”
“It's time, my children
When the waves rise high
When the waters run deep
When the clock strikes midnight
You'll feel the mark of Zero Hour
And you'll never be the same again”
“Then think of this as an adventure." I kissed hi cheek. "So which flower should I be?"
He curled me close to his chest, nuzzling his face into my hair. "Mmmm, can't you be all of them? My own bouquet of beauty? Like daisies opening their friendly petals." He brushed his fingertips over my eyelids. "Or marigolds that burn like the summer sun." He rubbed his hands over my back. "Or orchids-rare and exotic." He traced a finger across my collarbone down to rest lightly on the locket I wore all the time. "Roses for passion." He kissed me.”
“I saw a list of words written in the bold, slanted script running along the left-hand margin: breakfast, Italy, dream, beauty, temptation, goal, wish, love, future, laughter, hope, heaven. Next to each word my name had been written in the same bold script.”
“But don't you think that everybody is finally the same in the most essential ways? Some lives are probably much duller than others, but it's impossible to know how people live inside themselves, isn't it? I mean, a life could seem boring on the outside and be tumultuous within. Isn't cruelty more contemptible than ordinariness?”
“Nancy grabbed Plum's hand and together they ran around the last curve and then they were leaning against the old stone wall that marked Lookout Hill. Far, far down below them, a river was trying to wriggle its way out of a steep canyon. Over to the right, thick green hills crowded close to each other to share one filmy white cloud. To the left, as far as they could see the land flowed into valleys that shaded from a pale watery green, through lime, emerald, jade, leaf, forest to a dark, dark, bluish-green, almost black. The rivers were like inky lines, the ponds like ink blots.”
“The concept of individual rights is so new in human history that most men have not grasped it fully to this day. In accordance with the two theories of ethics, the mystical or the social, some men assert that rights are a gift of God-- others, that rights are a gift of society. But, in fact, the source of rights is man's nature.”
“Things aren't always what they seem, are they?”
“In other words, the man who is dejected and disquieted and miserable, who is unhappy and depressed always shows it in his face. He looks troubled and he looks worried. You take one glance at him and you see his condition. Yes, says the Psalmist in effect, but when I really look at God, as I get better, my face gets better also—‘He is the health of my countenance’.”
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