The point of flight. To get rid of oneself. That was reason enough to fly.

She was forever tilted sideways by the notion that pain was inevitable, chance was cruel, and all human ingenuity should go towards the making of a good cup of tea.

The repeated lies become history, but they don't necessarily become the truth.

She was tired of everyone wanting to go to heaven, nobody wanting to die. The only thing worth grieving over, she said, was that sometimes there was more beauty in this life than the world could bear.

Even if people laughed at the notion of goodness, if they found it sentimental, or nostalgic, it didn't matter -- it was none of those things, he said, and it had to be fought for.

You can count the dead, but you can't count the cost. We've got no math for Heaven.

A book is completed only when it is finished by a reader.