In small towns, news travels at the speed of boredom.

[H]e lay awake, dreading the dawn when he would have to say good-bye to the small universe he had built for himself over the years.

This cures everything except stupidity, which is an epidemic on the rise.

She was seventeen, her entire life shining on her lips.

In those days, Christmas still retained a certain aura of magic and mystery. The powdery light of winter, the hopeful expressions of people who lived among shadows and silence, lent that setting a slight air of promise in which at least children and those who had learned the art of forgetting could still believe.

Are you not tempted to create a story for which men and women would live and die, for which they would be capable of killing and allowing them to be killed, of sacrificing and condemning themselves, of handling over their souls?

Nothing is fair. The most one can hope is for things to be logical. Justice is a rare illness in a world that is otherwise a picture of health.