And the crowds, the same here as any other. How they all yearned to see acts that defied common expectation, that could push a man across the membrane that separated ordinary life from the imagination of better. The whole of human history depended on this desire.
. . .
Children, he realizes, keep their own truth and show another.
. . .
I wish I had a better explanation, but I think that maybe yes, they do, even when we don't. Places remember us.
. . .
There is only life, and there is meaningfulness inside it that can never be destroyed or again created.
. . .
The forgotten return again and again, as new names and faces, and again this city makes new ghosts. Can the dead ever forgive? What do they still remember of their old lives? It's only a hunch, but she's come to suspect that nothing true ever dies. Doesn't matter that the bullet holes have been filled and the walls painted over. Truth lingers, unseen like phantoms but there to rattle and scream wherever people try hardest to forget.
