Years later he'd stood in the charred ruins of a library where blackened books lay in pools of water. Shelves tipped over. Some rage at the lies arranged in their thousands row on row. He picked up one of the books and thumbed through the heavy bloated pages. He'd not have thought the value of the smallest thing predicated on a world to come. It surprised him. That the space which these things occupied was itself an expectation.

He thought that in the history of the world it might even be that there was more punishment than crime but he took small comfort from it.

The truth may often be carried about by those who themselves remain all unaware of it. They bear that which has weight and substance and yet for them has no name whereby it may be evoked or called forth. They go about ignorant of the true nature of their condition, such are the wiles of truth and such its stratagems.

You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.

The point is there ain't no point.

Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.

What joins men together ... is not the sharing of bread but the sharing of enemies.