“Oh, such a shame, such a shame. Oh, such a shame. What’s it all about anyhow?”“I’ve wondered for a long time.”“But why bring it to me?”“I guess I’m the Black Death,” he said slowly. “I don’t seem to bring people happiness any more.”

“I guess I'm the Black Death,' he said slowly. 'I don't seem to bring people happiness any more.”

“One evening, after he’d read a piece about yet another savagery in Bosnia, I saw there were tears in his eyes. ‘Don’t it ever stop?’ he said. ‘I can mind Father telling that there’d be no more wars, not after his one. It shames me. It shames all of us. What’s the good in reading, if that’s all there is to read about?”

“Oh, the shame that I suffer now . . . the shame of a vanquished King.” And those were the last words of Henry Plantagenet.”

“I’ve been grasping at nothing, running in circles, trying desperately to fill the emptiness inside with nothing but air. If I think about it too much, I feel shame, so much shame. So I don’t.”

“I guess that's when I understood what shame was and the color of it too. Shame ain't black, like dirt, like I always thought it was. Shame be the color of a new white uniform your mother ironed all night to pay for, white without a smudge or a speck a work-dirt on it”