For the first time, he heard something that he knew to be music. He heard people singing. Behind him, across vast distances of space and time, from the place he had left, he thought he heard music too. But perhaps, it was only an echo.

The community of the Giver had achieved at such great price. A community without danger or pain. But also, a community without music, color or art. And books.

Of course they needed to care. It was the meaning of everything.

- My instructors in science and technology have taught us about how the brain works. It's full of electrical impulses. It's like a computer. If you stimulate one part of the brain with an electrode, it... - They know nothing.

Memory is the happiness of being alone.

Writing is hard work, and fun, and requires you to keep your backside in a chair when you would sometimes like to put it elsewhere. So the only wisdom is the advice to keep at it, I guess.

There is something about that moment, when literature becomes accessible, and a door of the world opens.