#pg 185

He pulled away, faced pinched. “I’m not really here,” he whispered. “You are, Wallace.” Three words, and Wallace wasn’t sure he’d ever heard anything more profound. “Am I?” “Yes.” “What does that mean?” “I can’t tell you that,” Hugo said. “I wish I could. All I can do is show you the path before you, and help you make your own decisions.” “What if I make the wrong one?” “Then we start again,” Hugo said. “And hope for the best.”

you can’t hide in your melancholy world of D minor, forever

'But perhaps one day, when we are ready to die of ignorance and exhaustion, I shall be able to renounce our shrieking tombs, to go and lie down in the valley, under the unchanging light, and learn for one last time what I know.'

Somebody once told me that racism hurts everyone. Perhaps in the broader sense of community, this is true. All I know is that it seems to hurt some much more than others.