Wizard's Fourth Rule: There is magic in sincere forgiveness; in the forgiveness you give$$$ but more so in the forgiveness you receive.
The sun has already set on the days we made those choices. We must concentrate on what we can do tomorrow; we can't relive yesterday.
Nothing marks a man's character better than his attraction to intelligence.
The whole book is posing a question. You think you've won a war - what you've done is finish a war. There was a crime committed in that war the like of which perhaps was never committed in human history. You think about it.
Sleep is where we touch what is better left unexamined. There$$$ the whole of life is bundled up$$$ dwindled. There the carefully hoarded and enjoyed personality$$$ our only treasure and at the same time our only defense must die into the ultimate truth of things$$$ the black lightning that splits and destroys all$$$ the positive$$$ unquestionable nothingness.
Daylight might have answered yes; but darkness and the horrors of death said no.
There ought to be some mode of life where all love is good$$$ where one love can't compete with another but adds to it.
I'm against the picture of the artist as a starry-eyed visionary not really in control or knowing what he does. I'd almost prefer the word 'craftsman'. He's like one of those old-fashioned ship builders who conceived the build of the boat in their mind and after that touched every single piece that went into the boat.
Life's scientific$$$ but we don't know$$$ do we? Not certainly$$$ I mean.
The pile of guts was a black blob of flies that buzzed like a saw. After a while these flies found Simon. Gorged$$$ they alighted by his runnels of sweat and drank. They tickled under his nostrils and played leapfrog on his thighs. They were black and iridescent green and without number; and in front of Simon$$$ the Lord of the Flies hung on his stick and grinned. At last Simon gave up and looked back; saw the white teeth and dim eyes$$$ the blood and his gaze was held by that ancient$$$ inescapable recognition.