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“Toadvine put the muzzle of his pistol against the great dome of the judge’s head.
Goddamn you, Holden.
You either shoot or take that away. Do it now.”

TOADVINE U HAD THE CHANCE!!!

“Fool, he said. God will not love ye forever.
The kid turned to look at him.
Don’t you know he’d of took you with him? He’d of took you, boy. Like a bride to the altar.”

“How many is there John?
Did you learn to whisper in a sawmill?”

LMAOO

“They rode like men invested with a purpose whose origins were antecedent to them, like blood legatees of an order both imperative and remote. For although each man among them was discrete unto himself, conjoined they made a thing that had not been before and in that communal soul were wastes hardly reckonable more than those whited regions on old maps where monsters do live…”

“His spirit is exhausted at the peak of its achievement. His meridian is at once his darkening and the evening of his day.”

“All his life he carries before him the idol of a perfection to which he can never attain.”

“Whether in my book or not, every man is tabernacle in every other and he in exchange and so on in an endless complexity of being and witness to the uttermost edge of the world.”

“The lad looked at Tobin. What’s he a judge of? he said.
What’s he a judge of?
What’s he a judge of.
Tobin glanced off across the fire. Ah lad, he said. Hush now. The man will hear ye. He’s ears like a fox.”

Et In Arcadia Ego.

“De donde viene? called the strangers.
A donde va? called the judge.

…

And so these parties divided upon that midnight plain, each passing back the way the other had come, pursuing as all travelers must inversion without end upon other men’s journeys.”

“Books lie, he said.
God dont lie.
No, said the judge. He does not. And these are his words.
He held up a chunk of rock.”

“The judge like a great ponderous djinn stepped through the fire and the flames delivered him up as if he were in some way native to their element.”

“All lightly shimmering in the heat, these lifeforms, like wonders much reduced. Rough likenesses thrown up at hearsay after the things themselves had faded in men’s minds.”

“God made this world, but he didnt make it to suit everybody, did he?

I dont believe he much had me in mind.”

“…whether the stuff of creation may be shaped to man’s will or whether his own heart is not another kind of clay.”

“that I died by my own hand, and was raised by yours.”

“Thunder nears. The world cracks through the middle.”

“…she does not care if she never finds her way home again. She slips from thread to thread. Cities bloom and decay around her. Stars die. Continents shift. Everything starts, and everything fails.”

“…and think, I must prove myself her equal again—and the sharp, electric ache to stop you just to see you admire me is a kind of needle too.”

“She planned to get to it one day; she plans to get to everything one day.”

“Her pen had a heart inside, and the nib was a wound in a vein. She stained the page with herself. She sometimes forgets what she wrote, save that it was true, and the writing hurt. But butterfly wings break when touched.”

“…it is very difficult, to befriend where you wish to consume, to find those who, when they ask Do I have you still, when they end a letter with Yours, mean it in any substantive way.
So I go. I travel farther and faster and harder than most, and I read, and I
write, and I love cities. To be alone in a crowd, apart and belonging, to have
distance between what I see and what I am.”

“But while I’ve been enmeshed in this wholeness—they are not the whole
of me.”

“Small touches, ideas so fundamental they seem useless. Nobody here knows their worth, yet.”

“They lived their lives as sacrifices.”

“There’s a kind of time travel in letters, isn’t there? I imagine you laughing
at my small joke; I imagine you groaning; I imagine you throwing my words
away. Do I have you still? Do I address empty air and the flies that will eat
this carcass? You could leave me for five years, you could return never—and
I have to write the rest of this not knowing.”

“What do you want from this, Red? What are you doing here?
Tell me something true, or tell me nothing at all.”

“But then you turned up.”

Oh. This is a romance?

Losing the possibility of something is the exact same thing as losing hope
and without hope nothing can survive.

“Oh god what constant re-angling of thoughts, an endless rearrangement of them, revealing nothing but shit. What breaks. What gives.”