Our salvation never comes in the form we would have chosen.

What a strange thing it is to recognize a sound like the shriek of a wounded animal, when you've never heard the shriek of a wounded animal.

Let good people sin. Give virtue to rotters.

Using language like jungle growth isn't the solution to telling a story.

Our salvation never comes in the form we would have chosen.

There's something about a parenthesis in fiction that puts one off, saying, "It's me, moi, jumping in now."

Sometimes, in that darkness, there is a single act of love, some selfless gesture, an aspiration, and we see that it's not been all waste, all hopeless, and we can ... well ... go on.