He just put his hand through the bulkhead, exactly as she'd done, and squeezed my shoulder. He has very strong fingers. And he kept his hand there the whole way home, even when he was reading the map and giving me headings. So I am not flying alone now after all.

I sometimes think young people are not given nearly enough credit for their ability to appreciate literary flourish.

Nothing like an arcane literary debate with your tyrannical master while you pass the time leading to your execution.

She whispered, 'C'etait la Verite?' Was that Verity? Or perhaps she just meant, Was that the truth? Was it true? Did any of it really happen? Were the last three hours real? 'Yes,' I whispered back. 'Oui. C'etait la verite.

A part of me will always be unflyable, stuck in the climb.

You can come back to friendship. You can let it drop, for five years or ten years, and come back to it.

There’s glory and honour in being chosen. But not much room for free will