In this world of numbness and information overload, the ability to feel, my boy, is a rare gift indeed.

Knowledge is dangerous and men lie and the world changes, whether I want it to or not.

I wish I had a hundred years, she said, very quietly. A hundred years I could give to you.

Guessing a thing ain't knowing a thing.

Just cuz yer going there and I'm staying here," I say. "It don't mean we're parting." "No," she says and I know she understands. "No, it certainly doesn't." "I ain't parting from you again," I say, still looking at our fingers. "Not even in my head.

I was born into all that, all that mess, the over-crowded swamp and the over-crowded sematary and the not-crowded-enough town, so I don’t remember nothing, don’t remember a world without Noise. My pa died of sickness before I was born and then my ma died, of course, no surprises there. Ben and Cillian took me in, raised me. Ben says my ma was the last of the women but everyone says that about everyone’s ma. Ben may not be lying, he believes it’s true, but who knows?

Do we hate paradise so much we need to make sure it becomes a trash heap?