Readers Live a Thousand Lives

“Think of me sometimes, when the snowdrops have bloomed and the snow has melted.”

“Do you need help with it?” Death countered, arching a brow. “Forgiving him, I mean. For what he’s done.” Fox took a moment. “No,” he replied, surprised by how easily it left him. “I love him, Papa. I forgave him the moment he came back to me. I would love him still, even if he left me again. I would love him through several lifetimes, I think,” Fox determined, resigning himself to the truth, “and I would love him in every world, if he asked.”

“And the game is what, exactly?” Fox asked. “Is it simply to win against myself?”

“When you do the right thing for the wrong reason, no one praises you. When you do the wrong thing for the right reason, everyone does, even though what is right and wrong depends entirely on the story you’re living in. And no one says they need recognition or praise or love, but we all hunger for it. We all want to be special”.

“Give me knowledge of my end and the measure of my days, so I may know my frailty. My lifetime is no longer than the width of my hand. It is only a moment compared to yours.”

“My soul will go to its grave with your name echoing in my mind”.

“He fought a rush of memory, a crash of it, an axe against his heart; the things he’d tried so helplessly to bury rushing out of it in waves, in droves, in swarms. How many times had he heard Brandt Solberg say his name? How many ways? He’d heard it low and reverent, a whisper in his ear. He’d heard it sharp and strident, an assault on all his senses, a weapon and a blow. He’d heard it mournful and blissful; he’d heard it heated in anger, cool in warning, warm again in the late hours of night. He’d heard the sound of his name from Brandt Solberg’s lips so many times, in so many ways, that it almost seemed cruel to suffer it now”.