The Inquisitor's Tale: Or, The Three Magical Children and Their Holy Dog

There is something embarrassing about someone else's grief. It is hard to know what to do around it. The right answer, always, is hugs.

Sometimes, it turns out, the most important decisions in life are made by your dog.

It tastes like life." "What?" "Rotten and strange and rich and way, way too strong.

Inside her, great castles of comprehension, models of the world as she had understood it, shivered. She could not decide whether to let them crumble or to try desperately to save them.

There are some people in this world who have magic in them, whose very presence makes you happier. Some of those people, it turns out, are children.

Whoever destroys a single life destroys the whole world. And whoever saves a single life saves the whole world.

How could he hate the Jews and yet feel sick when they were attacked? Louis hated peasants, too, apparently, and yet he had no problem sitting beside Jeanne - hoisting her in the air and dancing even. Jacob tried to turn this over in his head, around and around, like the cartwheels beneath him. But after a while, he gave up. People were too strange to understand, he decided. They were like life. And also that cheese. Too many things at once.

Whether you go your separate ways or stay together, you will continue to witness--against ignorance, against cruelty, and on behalf of all that is beautiful about this strange and crooked world.

The mind is like a muddy road. Two ruts run down its center, from all the carts that have passed that way. No matter how many carts try to roll alongside the ruts, to stay out of the mud, sooner or later, a turn here or a jolt there will send them down into the ruts for good. Just so is the mind. As hard as we try to keep our thoughts out of the old ways, the old patterns, the old ruts, any little jog or jerk will send them right back down into the mud.

You are like pomegranates split open. Even the emptiest among you are as full of good as a pomegranate is full of seed.

A hug from a child! he exclaims. Perhaps God's greatest invention!

If we could hear our own songs, if we could see God’s creation the way God does, we would know it’s the most beautiful song there is.

And I read something else," Jacob goes on. "There was this discussion of the story of Cain and Abel, from the Bible. After Cain kills his brother, God says, 'The bloods of your brother call out to me.' Not blood. Bloods. Weird, right? So the Talmud tries to explain it." "I can explain it," says William. "The scribe was drunk." "William!" cries Jeanne. "The Bible is written by God!" "And copied by scribes," the big boy replies. "Who get drunk. A lot. Trust me." Jacob is laughing. "The rabbis have a different explanation. The Talmud says it's 'bloods' because Cain didn't only spill Abel's blood. He spilled the blood of Abel and all the descendants he never had." "Huh!" "And then it says something like, 'Whoever destroys a single life destroys the whole world. And whoever saves a single life saves the whole world." There are sheep in the meadow beside the road. Gwenforte walks up to the low stone wall, and one sheep--a ram--doesn't run away. They sniff each other's noses. Her white fur beside the ram's wool--two textures, two colors, both called white in our inadequate language. Jeanne is thinking about something. At last, she shares it. "William, you said that it takes a lifetime to make a book." "That's right." "One book? A whole lifetime?" William nods. "A scribe might copy out a single book for years. An illuminator would then take it and work on it for longer still. Not to mention the tanner who made the parchment, and the bookbinder who stitched the book together, and the librarian who worked to get the book for the library and keep it safe from mold and thieves and clumsy monks with ink pots and dirty hands. And some books have authors, too, like Saint Augustine or Rabbi Yehuda. When you think about it, each book is a lot of lives. Dozens and dozens of them." Dozens and dozens of lives," Jeanne says. "And each life a whole world." "We saved five books," says Jacob. "How many worlds is that?" William smiles. "I don't know. A lot. A whole lot.

...and William said, "O Lord God, we have tried to hear Your voice above the din of other voices. Above the heresy--and even above the orthodoxy. Above the abbots and the masters. Above the knights and even the kings. And though this world is confusing and strange, we believe we have heard Your voice and followed it--followed it here, to this place. Now please, God, hear us. Help us, watch over us, and protect us as we face the flames of hate. Please, God, please. And they all said, "Amen.

Because God does not work like poof! God works through people. Like you. It’s a strange way to run the world. Yes, even to me it is mysterious. Full of wonders—and endlessly maddening.

When you think about it, each book is a lot of lives. Dozens and dozens of them.

There are some people in this world who have magic in them. Whose very presence makes you happier. Some of those people, it turns out, are children.

No matter how much wisdom is in a book, is it right to trade your life for it?

Distinguishing the voice of God and the voices of those around us is no easy task. What makes you special, children, beyond your miracles, is that you hear God's voice clearly, and when you hear it, you act upon it.

Ale for a tale. That's the fairest trade I know.

What you would hate to have done to you—do not do to other people. That is the whole of the Torah. The rest is commentary. Now go, and study.

He’s a child. But he looks like the kind of child who has seen too much of life, who’s seen more than most adults. His eyes are both sharp and dead at the same time. As if he won’t miss anything, because he’s seen it all already.

To review: We have a dog that's been resurrected, a peasant girl who sees the future, a supernaturally strong oblate, and a Jewish boy with the power of miraculous healing.

Don't bring your morality around me. Morals is for people who's already got food.

In Hebrew, satan means an advocate of the alternative, the one who makes the arguments you don't know how to refute." Michelangelo looked to the old Jew, still grinning wickedly in the corner. "That satan is my best friend.

A scribe might copy out a single book for years. An illuminator would then take it and work on it for longer still. Not to mention the tanner who made the parchment, and the bookbinder who stitched the book together, and the librarian who worked to get the book for the library and keep it safe from mold and thieves and clumsy monks with ink pots and dirty hands.

Since days of old, God has always worked his miracles through those we least expect. The weakest, the poorest, the youngest.

Destroying someone’s books, someone’s preserved wisdom, is…wrong. A sin.

Inside her, grand castles of comprehension, models of the world as she had understood it, shivered. She could not decide whether to let them crumble or to try desperately to save them.

... They are to be stacked like logs, or thrown on a pyre, in the center of Paris,' Michelangelo explained. 'And they will be burned.' 'What are they?' Jeanne asked. 'Which books?' 'What does it matter? They're books!' William said.