âOn both sides of the wall were strangers and weird sights, terrible until you loved them. Our lands were always otherlands, to someone else.â (411)
âWhen you cared too much about one person, other people seemed to matter less, and sometimes you treated them as if they did not matter at all.â (401)
âHe knew what was wrong with him: awkward, spiky, occasionally cruel, inherently unlovable, all of that. But heâd always had a certain intense belief in what he could do: write treaties, end wars, throw all the knives away, make people listen to him, accomplish whatever he wanted.â (242)
âElliot had lost count of all the ways that people could betray you, out of love or indifference. He didnât know which was the worst way to be betrayed.â (239)
âViolence was like that, Elliot had noticed. One move toward it and all at once everything was allowed: anyone could be hurt, out of a mix of pride and anger and stupid disregard for the fact that you could be hurt as easily as someone else.â (56)
âNothing changed, not permanently. Elliot had known that even when the miracle happened, and he was taken away to somewhere fantastical. Every bit of reality in the fantasy reminded him that miracles were not for him.
Even if you found yourself in a magical story, there were no guarantees that you were the hero, or that you would get the things you dreamed of. Elliot knew no way, being who he was, to deserve that.â (47)
âNobody will ever love you enough to stay.â (47)
âHe didnât know how to get people to love him, but he knew how to bang on the door of peopleâs attention, lean on their bell until they answered in the vain hope he would go away. He knew how to be inescapably irritating.â (225)
âHow had he wound up here, in a place where all he had was pudding - Elliot would have sold his soul for a chocolate bar - and awful people who at the age of thirteen asked questions like âWhat if we were both dead?ââ (32)
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