We sure as ruddy heck ain't in Prentisstown no more," I say to Manchee under my breath.

As long as I hold it as long as I use it, the knife lives, lives in order to take life, but it has to be commanded, it has to have me to tell it to kill, and it wants to, it wants to plunge and thrust and cut and stab and gouge, but I have to want it to as well, my will has to join with its will. I'm the one who allows it and I'm the one responsible.

Maybe probably ain’t all that comforting a word when it’s maybe yer not dying.

Here I am. Here we are. Here we go. Here is all that matters.

War makes monsters out of men.

For me it is really important to have a story with blood in the veins, there are bad tempers and good tempers.

I take my rucksack and go out the opening where the front door used to be. Manchee gets up from where he's curled and follows me. When I sit down, he recurls by my legs and fall asleep, farting happily and giving a doggy sigh. Simple to be a dog.