He had lived and acted on the assumption that he was alone, and now he saw that he had not been. What he had done made others suffer. No matter how much he would long for them to forget him, they would not be able to. His family was a part of him, not only in blood, but in spirit.

I didn't know I was really alive in this world until I felt things hard enough to kill for 'em.

Whenever my environment had failed to support or nourish me, I had clutched at books.

Love grows from stable relationships, shared experience, loyalty, devotion, trust.

Violence is a personal necessity for the oppressed...It is not a strategy consciously devised. It is the deep, instinctive expression of a human being denied individuality.

I listened, vaguely knowing now that I had committed some awful wrong that I could not undo, that I had uttered words I could not recall even though I ached to nullify them, kill them, turn back time to the moment before I had talked so that I could have another chance to save myself.

I did not know if the story was factually true or not, but it was emotionally true [...].