Her dad’s body is a castle for her. A shelter and a weapon. When he puts his arm around her shoulders she feels a mixture of terror and comfort.
His particular kind of rage has always been very controlled, very quiet. The less he says, the angrier he is.
Her anger is still pure and white and electric, but she doesn’t feel the sadness of it at all.
This revolution feels like his personal miracle, a thing to overturn the world.
The power to hurt is a kind of wealth.
A writer’s job is courage. You’ve got to be as honest as you can.
It is only that every day one grows a little, every day something is different, so that in the heaping up of days suddenly a thing that was impossible has become possible.
The knowledge is as good as freedom.
There’s never been a right choice, honeybun. The whole idea that there are two things and you have to choose is the problem.
What can ever be more seductive than to be asked to stay away? What draws people nearer than being told they are unwelcome?
The future is imaginary and all its promises and fears imagined. We can rest in this moment.
When a multitude speak with one voice, that is strength and that is power.