I've learned that some memories surprise you and reveal a sharp edge just when you least expect it.

You know the saying: he who doesn't understand history is doomed to repeat it. And when it's repeated, the stakes are doubled.

In the beginning we were a group of nine. Three are gone, dead. There are six of us left. They are hunting us, and they won't stop until they've killed us all. I am Number Four. I know that I am next.

During the fire: 'Some of the drunker ones don't move. Some of them laugh. One person says, "Where's the marshmallows?" Mark slaps him across the face. "GET OUT!" he screams.

Images flicker, each one bringing its own sorrow or its own smile. Sometimes both. At the very worst, an impenetrable and sightless black and at best, a happiness so bright that it hurts the eyes to see, coming and going on some unseen projector perpetually turned by an invisible hand. One, then another. The hollow click of the shutter. Now stop. Freeze this frame. Pluck it down and hold it close and be damned by what you see. Henri always said: the price of a memory is the memory if the sorrow it brings.

When you have lost hope, you have lost everything. And when you think all is lost, when all is dire and bleak, there is always hope.

If he had one true love, then he wanted you to have one, too.