The context of this passage is interesting. Ceony is traveling through the four corners of her teacher’s heart, encountering different parts of himself. She saw his proud and happy moments, his hopes and aspirations and here she encounters the parts of himself he can’t forgive: the dark corners each of us have but choose to overcome or cultivate. The greatest battle is the one within ourselves.
What about my mistakes? I think about them, too, but where would I be if I thought of nothing else? What sort of person would I be if I drowned in them?
‘I forgive you Emery.’ Ceony repeated. ‘I’ve seen all of it, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t intend any of this to happen. ‘ She blinked away tears and stifled a sob lurking deep I get throat. ‘But I forgive you. It’s okay now. ‘
‘You don’t have the power to forgive.’
‘Then forgive yourself! ‘ She shouted, pushing herself back up. She pressed her palm against the wall for support. ‘Everyone has a dark side! But its their choice whether or not to cultivate it. Don’t you understands? Laura’s exploited hers, but not you. Not you Emery Thane.’ -Charlie M. Holmburg
I always say the truth is best even when we find it unpleasant. Any rat in a sewer can lie. It’s how rats are. It’s what makes them rats. But a human doesn’t run and hide in dark places, because he’s something more. Lying is the most personal act of cowardice there is.
-Matteo Alacarn, The House of the Scorpion, Nancy Farmer, 2002
The justifications of men who kill should always be heard with skepticism.
-The monster, A Monster Calls, Patrick Ness 2011
(…) we must learn to accept that all creatures, however fearsome they may be, are of divine origin.
-Colleen Houck, Tiger’s Curse, 2011
Sleep is not, death is not;
Who seem to die live.
House you were born in,
Friends of your springtime,
Old man and young maid,
Day’s toil and it guerdon,
They are all vanishing,
Fleeing to fables,
Cannot be moored.
-Poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Featured in Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, Ransom Riggs, 2011
And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.
-Le Petit Prince, Antoine De Saint-Expury, 1943
We found a table. Nora said: “She’s pretty.””If you like them like that.”
She grinned at me. “You got types?”
“Only you, darling – lanky brunettes with wicked jaws.”
“And how about the red-head you wandered off with at Quinns’ last night?”
“That’s silly,” I said. “She just wanted to show me some French etchings.
-Nick talking to wife Nora, The Thin Man, Dashiel Hammett, 1933
I have always been a reader; I have read at every stage of my life, and there has never been a time when reading was not my greatest joy. And yet I cannot pretend that the reading I have done in my adult years matches in its impact on my soul the reading I did as a child. I still believe in stories. I still forget myself when I am in the middle of a good book. Yet it is not the same. Books are, for me, it must be said, the most important thing; what I cannot forget is that there was a time when they were at once more banal and more essential than that. When I was a child, books were everything. And so there is in me, always, a nostalgic yearning for the lost pleasure of books. It is not a yearning that one ever expects to be fulfilled.
-The Thirteenth Tale, Diane Setterfield, 2006
It’s a goodly life that you lead, friends; no doubt the best in the world, if only you are strong enough to lead it!”Yes, it’s the life, the only life, to live,’ responded the Water Rat dreamily, and without his usual whole-hearted conviction.
‘I did not exactly say that,’ the stranger replied cautiously, ‘but no doubt it’s the best. I’ve tried it, and I know. And because I’ve tried it – six months of it – and know it’s the best, here I am, footsore and hungry, tramping away from it, tramping southward, following the old call, back to the old life, the life which is mine and which will not let me go.
-The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame, 1908
Thou art of the Jungle and not of the Jungle. And I am only a black panther. But I love thee, Little Brother.
-Baghera, The Jungle Book, Rudyard Kipling, 1894