“Each of us in our own small sphere can do something. And we can, we must.”
“This book made me feel strangely awkward, because I'm afraid of finding my own story in it. I take books too seriously.”
“It's a wonderful, inspiring feeling to have real friends who love and understand you. I have never had that feeling before.”
“There is beauty in the midst of tragedy. As if beauty were condensing in the heart of ugliness. It's very strange.”
“What will become of me? I do not know where am I going or what tomorrow will bring.”
“I really don't know what's happened to me, but I have changed from top to toe. I am living in a strange mixture of memories of yesterday and today.”
“What people need in order to write is an observant spirit and a broad mind.”
“The impression that what is extraordinary is real, and that the real is the extraordinary.”
“Now that everybody thinks he looks a little Slavic, it annoys me. I don't want that to be the reason I find him charming. I found him charming for no reason, because he is who he is.”
“There can be no deeper despair, no pain less easy to assuage, than losing a husband when you are young.”
“It seemed to me that I was suddenly in the presence of incosolable, unavoidable, and immense pain.
The thought of that death hunted me and turned everything else into nothing.”
“...For I do now know that it is cowardly. We do not have the right to think only of poetry on this earth. It is magical, but utterly selfish.”
“And then there is pride. I do not want any part of it. The idea that you can write for other people, so as to be praised by them, horrifies me. Maybe there is also the feeling that "other people" won't understand you completely, that they make you dirty and mutilate you, and that you let yourself be cheapened like mere merchandise.”
“Then you understand why I don't want to get close to another again. What happens when she dies, too? I couldn't bear it."
"Then you miss out on life."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll be alone, trusting no one because of fear. I know. I have four years experience of pushing people away, missing out on life. Four years spent by myself, living in my glass cage. Four years of self-doubt, worries, fears.”
“He imagined the door to a sad, empty room closing with a faint click, never to be opened again, and that calmed him a little.”
“Oh, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Slaying a villain in the service of your king is the stuff of legends and what heroes are made of." [Fanen told Myron]
"It didn't feel very heroic. It made me sick. I don't even know why I... no, that's a lie. I really have to stop doing that." [Myron said]
"Doing what?"
"Lying. (...) It's evidence of self loathing. You see, when you are so ashamed of your actions, thoughts, or intentions, you lie to hide it rather than accept yourself for who you really are. The idea of how others see you becomes more important than the reality of you.
"It's like when a man would rather die than be thought of a coward. His life is not as important to him as his reputation. In the end, who is the braver? The man who dies rather than be thought of as a coward or the man who lives willing to face who he really is?" [Myron finished]
"I'm sorry, you lost me there" Fanen said with a quizzical look.”
“Of course this chattering diary is a facade, the literary equivalent of the everyday smiling face which hides the inward ravages of jealousy, remorse, fear and the consciousness of irretrievable moral failure. Yet such pretenses are not only consolations but may even be productive of a little ersatz courage.”
“And every day there is music. One dark voice will start a phrase, half-sung, and like a question. And after a moment another voice will join in, soon the whole gang will be singing. The voices are dark in the golden glare, the music intricately blended, both somber and joyful. The music will swell until at last it seems that the sound does not come from the twelve men on the gang, but from the earth itself, or the wide sky. It is music that causes the heart to broaden and the listener to grow cold with ecstasy and fright. Then slowly the music will sink down until at last there remains one lonely voice, then a great hoarse breath, the sun, the sound of the picks in the silence.
And what kind of gang is this that can make such music? Just twelve mortal men, seven of them black and five of them white boys from this country. Just twelve mortal men who are together.”
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